


A Robin's Tale

by orphan_account



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Morgan Has Low Self-Esteem, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gang Violence, Gen, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Medical Procedures, Mental Health Issues, Near Death Experiences, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Platonic Relationships, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 107,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23547643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After the events of Blackwater and the mess that came along with it, Arthur Morgan and the rest of the Van der Linde Gang are reeling, running from the law and hiding from those who would love to see their heads on pikes. Forced to flee and rendering their future uncertain, Arthur isn't confident that the gang will ever recover. Harboring his own doubts about both himself and his future, Arthur questions whether or not they can get through this with their usual "plans," going about things as they always have. The world is changing, and it might be time they changed along with it. And maybe with the help of a woman unlike any Arthur has met, maybe they might get out of this alive. But as deepening internal divisions threaten to tear the gang apart, Arthur must make a choice between his own ideals, loyalty to the gang who raised him, and a future he didn't know he wanted.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Original Female Character(s), Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 44





	1. Horseshoe Overlook [1] | Americans at Rest

**Author's Note:**

> Hi anyone who is reading this fanfic of mine. I have been writing for a long time but never have I stepped into the world of fanfiction, so let me know if I'm doing anything wrong ;) I am somewhat unfamiliar with the website so I might have some formatting issues and the like, so if any of those are evident, don't be afraid to point them out. Any flaws in my writing, such as grammar or anything along those lines - maybe even plot inconsistencies - it would be awesome if anyone would like to bring attention to it. 
> 
> I recently fell in love with RDR and its characters and figured I might as well get those creative juices flowing. This is kind of written for me and me only, but i figured I might as well share it for anyone who might find it interesting. Sooo... enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit early for a bar fight; Arthur meets an interesting woman.

It wasn’t Arthur’s first bar fight, and it certainly wouldn’t be his last, so he knew what to expect when that brute of a man named Tommy had set his sights on him.

He could feel some bruises blossoming from the two drunkards he’d already taken down; one had landed a lucky shot to his abdomen while Arthur’s own mishap had earned him a nice punch to his side. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle, of course, but it proved somewhat distracting as he narrowly missed Tommy’s fist thrown towards his face. He used that opening to swerve an arm between the space of his side and shoulder, knuckles protesting as he landed a solid blow to Tommy’s side. Of course, Tommy wasn’t exactly built like a  _ normal _ man — that is, he consisted of several layers of pure muscle and was definitely strengthened by at least five strong drinks — so he took the blow in all its force and showed little reaction outside of a soft grunt. Arthur had been expecting at least some kind of reaction to the punch, but he hadn’t exactly taken into account Tommy’s build. It left him momentarily stunned, and while it was for less than a second, it was enough for Tommy to recollect himself and haul Arthur off his feet and over a bar table near the counter.

Arthur felt the wind rush from his lungs as his back hit the table heavily, quickly rolling himself off and onto the floor as he scrambled to his feet. A pair of gruff hands wrapped tightly around his shoulders, swiping him upward and Arthur felt his gut clench upon realizing what was about to happen.

While Arthur could say he’d had experience with bar fights, this was his first time being thrown out a window.

The initial impact of the glass sent tendrils of pain up his spine, igniting his back pain with a million little needles biting into his nerves. There was that bizarre sensation of being weightless, your entire body disconnected from the world around you, before he felt the solid welcome of mud and rain on his side. The cold clawed through his jacket and shirt ruthlessly, but it served to snap him out of his stunned, pained daze as he finally rolled himself forward into a standing position. He resisted a groan as his body protested against the movement, and he welcomed the electric touch of adrenaline that still surged through his blood like flame across alcohol.

“Come on, pretty boy…” Tommy’s voice was like gravel running across mud, tantalizing and full of unencumbered confidence. Arthur couldn’t see his face, but he had no doubt it had a giant yellow-toothed grin plastered over it.

Arthur felt the familiar buzzing of anger in his chest, and he felt the overwhelming need to bury his fists in that asshole’s chest until he keeled over and spat out blood. “Pretty boy?” He grumbled, readying his stance and blinking chilled rain from his eyes; his hat was long gone. “You’re kidding me?  _ Pretty boy _ ?”

Arthur wasted no time launching himself at Tommy, who had — unsurprisingly — adorned an ugly expression of snarky assuredness across his disgusting face. He leaned into a solid right hook, which Tommy hadn’t managed to dodge in time, Arthur’s fist landing solidly onto his cheek. He didn’t have a chance to really appreciate the pained grunt that leaked out of Tommy’s mouth because Arthur had to lean himself backwards to escape a retaliating fist aimed at his chest. He mentally scolded himself when he’d left himself open to attack. He’d managed to angle himself in a way so that Tommy’s blow to his abdomen didn’t do as much damage, but it was a successful hit, garnering a stumble from Arthur that he quickly turned into a kick directed at Tommy’s shin. Predictably, Tommy positioned himself backwards to avoid the blow, allowing Arthur to land a string of punches to the man’s chest.

He kept his curse quiet when Tommy parried his third blow, but he couldn’t keep his pained gasp silent when Tommy wrapped a pair of calloused hands around Arthur’s neck and tossed him forwards, out into the street. Arthur had expected the attack to hurt, but he hissed when a sharp tendril of pain wound up his neck, striking him like a thin tendril of liquid iron. He was thankful for the adrenaline’s ability to push that pain aside as Arthur recollected his stance.

He ignored Bill’s chiding — “I said this’d be fun, didn’t I?” — and angled a punch at Tommy’s midsection. Tommy made a motion to parry the punch, and Arthur used that opportunity to swing his left fist around and land a solid blow to the man’s side. It broke the man’s defensive stance somewhat, allowing Arthur to land another blow to his chin. His fingers protested, but Arthur focused on the surge of satisfaction when he saw Tommy’s face contort into a grimace; no more smug grin on the tragedy that was his grizzled face.

“You okay there, Arthur?” Charles, calling from somewhere to his right, sounding somewhat concerned.

“Yeah, I got this son of a bitch,” There was that pain in his neck again, sharp and demanding, and it was accompanied by a strange tightness in his throat — almost like he was beginning to choke on something with an edge; he could worry about it later. 

Ignoring the metallic taste in his mouth, he threw himself sideways to avoid Tommy’s full-body attack sent in his direction. Arthur used the man’s moment of disorientation to launch a hard punch to his collarbone, which Tommy took in all its force, sacrificing pain in favor of preventing a predictable move. Instead, Arthur was left reconsidering his attacks, and he grunted when Tommy bent over and tackled Arthur to the ground, which was now a haphazard carpet of mud and water. Arthur couldn’t stop the cough from escaping his check as his lungs found themselves without air. Tommy’s fists found his face a couple times — Grimshaw would be livid once the bruises started forming — and Arthur could tell the fight was beginning to slip away from him; Tommy knew it, too.

The confidence the man was beginning to allow himself was premature. Arthur pushed against the man’s weight, feeling as though he were pinned under a goddamn wagon, and found an opening to throw a fist into Tommy’s neck. The man choked, and Arthur hurled himself forward so he was on top of Tommy, bringing his fists down into the man’s face rapidly, leaving him no time to counter the blows. Arthur’s fingers cried out in displeasure, but he kept going, feeling the flesh beneath his knuckles resist as his fist met Tommy’s face, over and over and over again.

Someone had shouted for him to stop, but he didn’t. It wasn’t until a sharp grip on his wrist, caught before he could bring it down again, that Arthur looked away from Tommy’s battered and bruised face and up at the crowd gathered around them.

“Stop, sir, look at the man — you’ve won this one,” The voice was soft, warm, and completely alien amidst such a savage scene. He looked up and met a pair of eyes as green as the leaves on a fresh summer day, sharp and narrowed in a way that wasn’t  _ asking _ him to stop, but  _ telling _ him to. They belonged to a fair-skinned woman with freckles along her cheeks and hair the color of raven’s feathers; the fact that he’d almost punched her sent a pang of shame through his chest.

Arthur released his fist holding Tommy up by his shirt collar, ignoring the grunt from the man when his back hit the muddied street. He spoke through the pain in his neck, panting against the exertion. “What business is it of yours?”

She narrowed her eyes further, gaze flicking towards his neck for a moment before she turned around, gesturing towards someone in the small ocean of faces. “Downes, Jesus, just take Tommy outta here for fuck’s sake,” A pale, thin man with a beard emerged from the crowd, crouching down and beginning to fuss over the brute on the ground, who lay motionless but obviously still breathing. 

The woman looked back up at Arthur, eyes sharp with a strange, businesslike concern, like she was reluctant to show  _ actual _ worry towards him. “You need to sit down, sir,”

“I’m fine,” He impatiently waved her off, and he felt the strange edge in his throat again, and he coughed against it. It sent a spike of pain through his nerves, far harsher than the bruises he could feel bubbling beneath his skin.

She scoffed. “Unless you want to die a slow, agonizing death, I insist that you sit down,”

The hell? He reached up towards his neck, where pain had been steadily emitting in sharp pulses, but a hand quickly swatting him away. He felt himself get urged towards the general direction of the saloon, and he sat himself on the step, groaning slightly at the way seemingly every square inch of his body protested. He tried to swallow against the strange obstruction in his throat, but he felt a strangled gag clench his throat painfully.

“Stay still,” Her voice had a strange lilt to it, her vowels heavier than the rest of her words. Obviously she wasn’t from here, but his curiosity was quickly overwhelmed by a stab in his neck that made him hiss.

The faces of Javier and Charles entered his vision, the latter looking unnerved while the former donning an expression of open alarm. It made Arthur feel budding panic on top of the bewilderment of the entire situation. All he wanted was to get out of his mud-soaked clothes and deposit himself onto his cot and sleep for the rest of the day, but  _ clearly _ something  _ else _ had to happen before he could succumb to a semblance of comfort.

“ _ Carajo _ , Arthur,” Javier gritted his teeth like he was looking at something he didn’t want to see. Charles shared a similar look, and it only served to make Arthur feel more panicked and frustrated.

He was through with it. “For the love of—“

“You two his friends?” She cut him off, and Arthur watched as the two men nodded. “Good. Now tell him to shut up or else he’s gonna have even  _ more _ of a problem,”

Arthur wanted to tell her something along the lines of  _ stop talking about me like I’m not here  _ but he took the hint loud and clear; he needed to stop trying to talk and follow directions. Why he needed to do so still hadn’t been disclosed, but going off the expressions on his friends’ faces, he figured it was time to stop acting like an impatient fool and take matters seriously — maybe he’d get some answers if he did so.

She placed a soft hand on the side of his face, her touch warm but stable on his cheek; he ignored the way it sent a shiver down his spine. She slowly leaned his head back and towards the side, lips pursed in concentration as she looked at his neck. Arthur couldn’t see what she was looking at, but it was beginning to make his anxious.

“I’m gonna ask you again,” the woman met his gaze, eyes bright with urgency and practically pinning him in place. “ _ Stay _ .  _ Still _ ,”

He stopped himself from nodding, but she wasn’t looking for a confirmation. Her hand positioned his head in a weird way that made his neck ache, head tilted and leaned back. Satisfied when he held the position, she removed her hand from his cheek and placed it above his collarbone. Confused and kind of uncomfortable at the way the three were looking at him, Arthur remained still as she lifted her other hand and moved it towards his neck. She met his gaze for a second, before she pinched something between her fingers that was out of his vision, and Arthur’s neck ignited in pain.

He hissed, and something in his throat lurched, inciting a strange clenching feeling deep in his neck. He felt the distinct sensation of choking, of something obstructing his windpipe, and he gasped. It felt like fire was wrapping around his throat, sucking the air out of his lungs and strangling him. He instinctively repelled, but the curse that the woman spat out harshly snapped him back into place; as much as he didn’t want to — as much as his body wanted him to thrash and shove the woman away from him — he remained as still as he could be.

There was a moment where his vision swam, where the muddied streets of Valentine faded to black and the pain in his neck peaked, and then he could breathe again. He coughed harshly, feeling metal spill through his lips as his throat clenched and his lungs greedily took in air. There was a hand patting his shoulder reassuringly — probably Charles — and he felt a cloth of some kind being pressed harshly into his neck.

Arthur looked up and felt his stomach flip as he saw the shard of glass pinched between the woman’s fingers.

It all pieced together rather quickly, and he was somewhat grateful for being left in the dark for a bit. The shard was about the size of his index finger and almost entirely tinged in a familiar shade of crimson. Had that seriously been in his neck? A shard of glass that was almost as long as the width of his neck? The thought made his head swim and he’d realized just how close to death he had been, all while being moderately unaware of it.

For some  _ baffling _ reason, Javier took the shard from the woman’s hands, examining it with morbid curiosity. She didn’t give it a second glance, instead looking Arthur sternly in the eyes and saying with harsh sharpness — even though her soft accent dampened the harshness somewhat, “Try not to talk for a couple hours and keep your neck as still as you can. I get that’s asking for a lot, considering, but just to be safe,” She looked to Arthur’s right, where Charles had sat himself down next to him; he hadn’t even realized it. “Bleeding will stop in an hour, I reckon. Stitch it up then,”

“He’ll be fine, then?” Charles asked, the unsteadiness in his voice uncharacteristic, but Arthur figured it was completely warranted; a goddamn shard of glass lodged in his neck…

The woman nodded, wiping her hands on a cloth she’d extracted from her pocket; he hadn’t noticed it before, but she was wearing trousers. “Keep it clean, covered, and it’ll heal quickly. Gonna scar, though,”

Javier chuckled at that. “Looks like you’ve got a tale to tell the ladies now, eh  _ manito _ ?”

“Making new friends again I see, Arthur.”

Out of all the places for Josiah Trelawney to make an appearance, the middle of a grimy livestock down in the midst of a bar fight aftermath was not a place Arthur expected to encounter him. The man looked entirely out of place in his fine-pressed clothes and pricey top hat, his outfit better suited for the streets of New York than in the muddied roads of the country. Arthur gave him an off handed wave, not feeling too eager to twist his neck and see what would happen to the open wound on it. It was still bleeding freely — not enough to worry about blood loss but enough that the wound needed to be monitored closely. The woman shoved a roll of bandages and gauze into Arthur’s hands before rising to her feet, readying to dismiss herself.

Dutch and Trelawney approached the three men, Dutch with his persistent swagger and Trelawney as languidly as a man who knew more than he was supposed to. Dutch’s eyes landed on the hand pressing the cloth to his bleeding neck, and he traded a look with Charles and Javier — Bill had blundered off somewhere, it seemed.

“And what kind of trouble have you boys  _ already _ managed to get into?” Dutch questioned, hands planted on his gun belt and eyebrows raised in an almost teasing way.

Arthur opened his mouth to respond but felt a kick aimed at his boot. He met the patronizing gaze of the woman, whose name he still didn’t know, and took that as his cue to maintain the silence she had advised him. Doctor’s orders, it seemed. He figured he probably shouldn’t test his limits regarding something as near-death as a shard of glass through the neck, so he reluctantly held his tongue and hoped the others around him could cover him.

Surprisingly, the woman was the one to respond. “Bar fight. This one,” she gestured at Arthur, who found himself rolling his eyes. “Got tossed through a window and landed with a shard of glass through his neck,”

“Jesus,” Dutch leaned forward, moving to peel back the cloth Arthur had pressed against his neck, but Arthur swatted his hand away and motioned back at the woman. Dutch turned around, looking somewhat irked. “And who might you be?”

“The one who took the glass out of his neck,” She replied simply, obviously avoiding giving her name for whatever reason.

Dutch didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he gave her one of his charming smiles and nodded at her. “Then it seems we owe you some thanks, miss,”

She huffed a small laugh. “No need. Just make sure he gets that stitched in an hour or so and he keeps his neck still. If you can keep his mouth shut, too, that’d be great,”

“Might have some trouble with that one,” Javier remarked, and Arthur had a difficult time stopping himself from tossing something back at him. Javier smirked at him; god they were kind of enjoying this unceremonious vow of silence he’d been forced to take, even if it were a result of  _ nearly dying _ .

She laughed courteously, sharing a look with Arthur. “I can tell you have some business to attend to, so I’ll take my leave,”

It felt weird watching her walk away, knowing she’d essentially saved his life and he hadn’t even thanked her — that he didn’t even know her name. She said a quick goodbye to the group, her accent still impossible to pinpoint, and made her way down the street. It didn’t take long for her to vanish amongst the reawakening town, whose populace had wasted no time returning to business after the fight ended; Arthur wondered whether or not this sort of thing occurred in the town often. His thoughts lingered on the woman a bit longer than he cared to admit, but more important matters needed to be discussed, and his attention was quickly redirected as Trewlawney revealed the information he had uncovered regarding Sean.

He figured it was best to move forward, even as his conscience belittled him for never thanking her for what she did for him; guess he’d never get the chance to do so.


	2. Horseshoe Overlook [2] | Who is Not Without Sin?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur feels guilty not being able to thank that woman; the Reverend is a horrible poker player, especially when he's drunk.

“We’ve barely been in town for a  _ day _ and you’ve already managed to irk the entirety of Valentine, get thrown out a window,  _ and _ nearly die when a shard of the damn thing went through your neck!”

“Jesus, Hosea, at least wait until he can say something for himself—“

“Oh I’m not waiting, Dutch,” Hosea’s voice was dripping with a weird kind of angry disappointment, but Arthur could hear the beginnings of a scolding humor that always appeared when something bad happened but everyone came out in one piece. He was sat on Dutch’s cot, leaning back on his hands as Hosea carefully stitched the wound in his neck. The bleeding had stopped to the point where he could thread the needle without losing it in crimson, but the pain was still pretty persistent, and he’d coughed up some leftover blood when he’d attempted to talk — much to the dismay of the two men in front of him.

Arthur sighed, which was one of the three things he could express that didn’t seem to piss off his neck. Dutch and him shared a knowing look; Hosea always had some choice words for the pair of them whenever they returned with trouble at their backs. He was the one who seemed to cause the  _ least _ amount of trouble in the gang — even Tilly had that natural spark for stirring the pot the wrong way — so he’d self-appointed himself as the one who’d scold whoever needed scolding; next in line was Grimshaw, but she had the rest of the camp to worry about right now.

“You know our Arthur,” Dutch smirked when Arthur rolled his eyes. “Always looking for some faces to punch,”

“Bill started—“ He gagged at the metal blossoming in his throat, swallowing against it and wincing when a spark of pain tweaked his neck. Hosea gave him a smug smirk when Arthur coughed slightly; he’d been the one to tell him to shut up each time he attempted to talk, clearly feeling proud of himself when Arthur returned to his silence.

Dutch dragged a hand down his face, suddenly looking several years older and awfully tired. “You sure he’ll be fine, Hosea?”

The other man nodded. “That woman was right; he’ll be fine in a day or two if he  _ stays quiet _ ,”

Arthur rolled his eyes. Hosea finished up the stitching, wrapping a bandage around Arthur’s neck and backing away to allow Arthur to button up his shirt, failing to hide a wince as he put on his jacket. The pain wasn’t anything he hadn’t endured before, but the  _ kind _ of pain was something completely alien to him. He’d been stabbed before, but it wasn’t like that kind of pain, even thought that was essentially what happened. His neck ached steadily, but a very specific region of his throat felt like something had latched onto the inside of it. While both Hosea and that woman had assured him he’d be fine, something inside him was still paranoid, mostly because he’d never heard of anyone experiencing an injury like the one he had and living to tell about it.

It must’ve been obvious, because Hosea’s hands found his shoulders and the man gave him a reassuring smile. “You’ll be fine, Arthur. Go get some rest,”

Rest sounded great about now. While his neck had been the worst of them, he still had some impressive bruises to attend to. With a lazy wave and a nod from Dutch, Arthur left the man’s tent and made his way to his cot; thank god it was late enough that many of the gang had departed to their own tents and weren’t there to stop him.

He collapsed into his cot, leaning back on the fabric with his hands tucked behind his head. He let his thoughts wander for a bit, from the shitshow that was the Blackwater mess, to the fair bit of game he’d spotted down by the river behind Horseshoe. He found himself wondering about the woman for a moment, still feeling a bit of regret with not being able to thank her, and how pretty her eyes had been. He felt a pang of embarrassment; what was he, a  _ schoolboy _ ? He pushed himself into a sitting position, reaching over and picking up his journal from the table beside his cot. Flipping to a blank page, he lowered his pencil and began to write about the words whirling around in his head. 

_ I feel bad not thanking that woman. God knows she didn’t have to save the life of some  _ ~~_ unknown asshole _ ~~ _ stranger who was stupid enough to get himself thrown through a window. But there are plenty of things I wish I’d said to women I’ll never see again, and she ain’t no different. _

Arthur paused, pen poised at the end of the sentence. He hated how it sounded and how true it was; it made his chest churn uncomfortably. There weren’t many times where his life needed to be saved by another — he could could how many times that had happened on one hand — and each of them had been thanked in one way or another. He owed her his life, and that kind of debt needed to be acknowledged. It didn’t feel right just allowing that woman to go unrewarded for doing something she didn’t need to do, and Arthur’s conscience was continuously scolding him for even considering the idea of not going back and at least thanking her verbally.

So, he slammed his journal shut and made plans for the morning.

* * *

He spotted her at the bar, swirling a glass of something amber and harboring a pensive look on her face. Without the adrenaline haze and the panic of near-death injury, Arthur finally got a look at her features, and she was incredibly beautiful.

Perhaps not in the way some men preferred; her skin was fair and somewhat tanned, hair the color of charcoal and pulled back into an elaborate-looking braid (Arthur never understood how women could do such complex things with their hair), freckles haphazardly spotting her complexion. Her eyes were a deep green, almost like emerald but closer to moss than anything, and they looked awfully sad. She wore trousers and a button-up shirt, the same as what she was wearing yesterday, complete with a tiny split of blood near the wrists that Arthur assumed belonged to him. She leaned heavily into the bar counter, watching the drink as it swirled around the glass at her movements, mind a million miles away — Arthur reconsidered interrupting what was clearly a personal moment, but his presence was immediately known as soon as he stepped into the saloon.

“S-sir, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to ask you to leave,” The bartender looked at Arthur as if he were a bear rather than a man, eyes bright with alarm, as if watching the window shatter into a million pieces right in front of his eyes,  _ again _ .

Arthur held his hands up in what he hoped was a placating gesture. “I won't cause any trouble, well, any  _ more _ trouble, mister,”

The woman looked up, recognition flashing in her eyes for a second, before she turned and waved to catch the attention of the bartender. “I’ll vouch for him,”

The bartender gave her a puzzled look. “Sure you wanna do that, miss?”

“Sure, and pour another glass of whiskey, if you don’t mind,”

Arthur took it as his cue to sit in the stool next to her, the bartender not hiding his displeasure when he poured a drink into a glass in front of him, sliding it to Arthur, who gave him a courteous nod. He hadn’t exactly behaved himself last time he entered the establishment, making the poor customer service entirely justified, and Arthur held back a snide remark regarding the amount of drink in his glass. He tested the alcohol on his tongue, relishing in the taste for a moment, before he redirected his attention to the woman beside him.

“Thanks for the drink,” Arthur said, and he added somewhat hurriedly, “And for, you know, savin’ my life,”

She nodded politely. “Just doing my job,”

“Maybe, but I certainly didn’t deserve it,” He took a quick sip of his whiskey, feeling the woman’s eyes on him curiously.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said simply, voice tinged in that strange accent of her’s that clearly labeled her as an outsider. “You were injured, and I was there,”

“You a doctor, or somethin’?”

She laughed softly. “That was the plan,”

He figured he shouldn’t pry further, her tone hinting at the beginning of matters Arthur had no business meddling in. He changed directions, extending a hand her way. “Well, I’m Arthur Morgan. Don’t recall catchin’ your name durin’ that mess,”

She gave him a small smile, genuine and warm as she grasped his hand and shook it. “Robin Rivera — a mouthful, I  _ know _ — so just call me Robin, or Rivera, or Linda, I don’t rightfully care which,”

He chuckled at that. “How’s Robin?”

Robin nodded, a small smirk on her face, and Arthur had a feeling she was teasing him in some way. “Fine with me, Mister Morgan,”

“Just Arthur is fine,” he made sure to draw that line quickly; “Mister” made him feel old and respectful, both of which he were not — not quite yet, anyways. “Your accent, don’t sound like anyone from around here,”

“That makes two of us, it seems,” She took a long drink from her glass, and Arthur wondered whether it was her first or second. “Born in the Philippines, immigrated to Mexico with my family, circumstances brought me up to America, and  _ more _ circumstances directed me here,”

“My, um, my family actually came from Wales,” Arthur wasn’t sure why he was telling her — he hadn’t even told Dutch or Hosea about his family’s origins — and yet here he was, spilling his guts as if he were ten drinks in rather than one. It was strange and somewhat concerning; something about the woman, Robin, made him want to talk to her. He sensed a companionship between them, some unspoken connection that he didn’t encounter often. She was charismatic in the way Dutch was, naturally enticing those around her to listen, but it wasn’t in a showy or alluring way. Maybe it was because she seemed like a genuinely good person, and it had been so long since Arthur had encountered someone who was actually  _ kind _ , and it wasn’t unlike seeing the sun after a particularly nasty storm.

“Really?” She raised an eyebrow, features shifting into a curious expression. “I wouldn’t have guessed,”

He scoffed. “Yeah, I guess that’s kind of the point. I was young anyways, don’t even remember the place,”

“Don’t matter,” She tossed back the rest of her drink and waved down the bartender, who looked at her warily as he filled her glass again; it was only early afternoon, and she was drinking like it was an evening occasion — Arthur didn’t say anything. “Your roots are important, even if you don’t remember them,”

He hadn’t thought about it that way. His childhood consisted of the worst years of his life, and he’d gone through some lengths to move away from the memories that came along with them; the only things he had from those years were two photographs, his father’s hat, and a language he probably couldn’t speak fluently anymore. Those years had forged some part of his character, and even if he erased those years from memory, the effects of them couldn’t be forgotten.

“I’m sorry if I brought back some things you were trying to forget,” Robin’s voice snapped him from his thoughts, and he caught her sighing heavily, gnawing on her lip nervously. “I’m just rambling, I guess,”

“Naw, you’re okay,” Arthur replied, holding back a sigh of his own. “I just haven’t thought about my early years in a while,”

“I can tell you aren’t fond of them,”

“Not really, no,” He hoped his voice didn’t sound rough or defensive; his voice had a way of sounding rather angry whenever it dropped a couple octaves.

There was a moment of silence, only  _ slightly _ filled with awkward tension; Robin’s warm voice broke it. “My childhood was decent, up until it wasn’t. So I get it, I do. Kinda sucks when your earliest memories are shitty, but what can you do?”

“Yeah,” He finished his drink, but when the bartender made a motion to refill his glass, Arthur shook his head. “Can’t change the past, so, might as well go about making a future of your choosin’,”

Her eyes lost some of that sadness, and she smiled at his words, and it made Arthur’s heart heat up a bit. She met his gaze, putting the drink aside. “You know what, Arthur, those were some  _ kind _ words,”

He chuckled. “I try,”

It must’ve been what she needed to hear, because she began to search her pockets to pay the bartender, but Arthur quickly reached into his satchel and pulled out more than enough to cover the drinks, both recent and otherwise. He put a bit extra for the stress of having to indulge a customer like Arthur again — meaning he put a bit extra for some of the damages he’d caused yesterday. The bartender noticed, and he nodded in acknowledgement, whittling away at some of Arthur's guilt for stirring up such a destructive fuss; if only Bill shared in that mentality…

Robin opened her mouth to protest but Arthur cut her off. “It’s the least I could do,”

She quickly got the message; Arthur would not let her pay for the drinks, and he still felt as though he owed her far more than money for what she did for him. “Alright, in that case, thanks,” He watched her as she rose to her feet, only slightly unsteady as she stood. She made a motion to leave, turning towards the door, but quickly halted herself. Her face was slightly tinged when she returned to face him. “Can I check your neck? I call myself a medical professional, and yet I didn’t even bother to make sure you were in one piece when you walked in here,”

Truthfully, he hadn’t even thought to mention it to her, other than to thank her for treating him. While the pain was still there, albeit significantly better and easy to ignore, he still had the bandage wrapped tightly around the wound. “Oh, yeah, sure,”

She approached him, and he realized that she was kind of short, with her head only slightly above his while he sat slouched in the stool. Her hands were soft and cautious as she removed the bandage from around his neck, movements fluid and experienced; she hadn’t been lying when she said she was a doctor “of some kind.” She gently touched his cheek, tilting his head back to give herself a clearer view of the wound. Her eyes picked it apart, analyzing it, looking for things that Arthur probably didn’t even know existed. All he knew what to look out for was swelling, weird discoloration, and bleeding, but he knew there were probably many other warning signs to look out for. Nevertheless, she brought a careful hand to the wound, prodding it slightly with her fingers, sending a small tendril of pain around his throat.

He must’ve winced, because she quickly rushed to apologize. “Sorry, I just want to make sure you’re entirely in the clear,”

“No hard feelin’s, doc,”

“Any pain when you speak?” She questioned, leaning rather close to his neck, close enough that he caught the scent of wildflowers on her skin.

It caught him off guard for a second. “Um, no, not really, just when I turn my head sometimes,”

“Good,” She pulled away, obviously satisfied. Arthur hoped his face wasn’t red, but he could certainly feel it heating up; she’d gotten kind of too close for comfort. “Whoever did the stitching did a good job,”

“I’ll let him know,”

She nodded, sliding her hands into her pockets. “Just keep the area clean, you shouldn’t need the bandages anymore, suffocating the wound won’t do it any good. Otherwise, you’ll have nothing but a little scar to tell you it happened,”

“So, my head won’t fall off?”

She chuckled. “No, I can say for certain your head will stay in place,”

There was a moment of silence, one neither of them made a motion to break. Instead, Arthur pulled himself to his feet, rolling his shoulders. He could sense the inevitable departure — they both had lives to get back to, after all. He tried not to sound disappointed when he asked, “Will I see you around here?”

She shook her head. “Afraid not. I have to head south somewhat, so this’ll most likely be goodbye, Arthur Morgan,”

“In that case,” He took her hand in his, nodding in what he hoped was in somewhat of a charismatic way. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Rivera,”

“Likewise,” She smiled. “I hope whatever business you have happening on your end goes well,”

He gave her a friendly smile. “Yours as well, Robin,”

It felt better, leaving her this time, and not just because his neck wasn’t bleeding down his shoulder and he couldn’t speak without coughing up blood. But because he had settled his debt as well as he could, thanked her for what she had done for him, and finally got her name. The conversation had been nice, even if it provoked memories he hadn’t thought about in years. But it had been refreshing — rejuvenating, even — and he hadn’t realized how tense he’d been since Blackwater; he’d forgotten how nice it felt to talk to someone who actually bothered to listen.

He left the saloon and made his way to his new horse, the Tennessee Walker who had accompanied them out of Colter. He hadn’t settled on a name yet, but he had a few ideas bumping around in his head; depending on how their relationship developed — and whether or not it did— maybe he wouldn’t be needing a name. He hauled himself into the saddle and began towards Flatneck Station, conscience satisfied and finally allowing his mind to drift off into other directions.

His thoughts wandered into directions they hadn’t in a while; he thought about his parents — his father — and the language they used to speak together. Once his mother had died, his father had all but stopped speaking Welsh, each and every word spoken in that harsh, contorted version of English that made Arthur’s skin crawl just thinking about it. He found himself wondering about Mary, but he pushed her out of his kind when his chest ached heavily. He thought about John, lying stiffly in the shade of his and Abigail’s tent, chest and face swathed in bandages; maybe he should’ve asked Robin to come and check him out. No, Dutch would’ve  _ lost _ it, and Arthur was surprised at how outlandish of a thought it was — bringing a stranger to camp just because she knew how to treat wounds — and Arthur wondered whether or not having that drink was a good idea. 

It was a beautiful afternoon in New Hanover, barely a cloud in sight as the sun gazed heavily on the backs of everything beneath it. Arthur has forgone his jacket, relishing in the warmth, not missing the bone-numbing cold in those dreadful mountains one bit. He caught sight of the tiny train station in the distance, populated only by a few men as far as he could tell. What the Reverend was doing here, Arthur had no idea, but he knew for certain it wasn’t going to be anything good.

He securely fastened his horse’s reins outside of the station, wandering around for a bit in search of the Reverend. It didn’t take long to find the man, his voice — slurred and louder than necessary, unsurprisingly — barreling out from the back end of the station. Sliding open a pair of old barn doors, Arthur entered the station.

He was sitting around a table with two other impatient-looking men, looking no worse for wear but obviously several drinks in; the scent of whiskey was heavy on the man’s breath. The Reverend looked up eagerly upon Arthur’s entrance, a hand of cards held loosely in his fingertips. “Mister Morgan! I took your advice, sir, I took your advice,”

“Then your god has finally deserted you,” he eyed the man suspiciously. “What you talkin’ about?”

He dropped the cards onto the table, leaning forward with wide eyes and drunken eagerness. “I took your advice, sir. I have removed myself from Morpheus’ embrace!” He rose to his feet, grasping Arthur’s shoulders and gesturing around animatedly. “No more shall I sink, sir. I am free. I am free!”

Arthur held back a sigh when Reverend removed his hands from his shoulders. “You don’t seem free, friend. You seem  _ drunk _ ,”

The man in a worn red union shirt and a pair of tangled mutton chops pointed restlessly at the Reverend. “Sit down Reverend, we ain’t finished,”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “You ain’t finished? Look at him, he’s finished,”

“None of us forced liquor down his throat, friend. I-I just want him to play,” he gestured a hand at the cards laid across the table, poker chips stacked and moved in what was clearly a full-fledged game.

Arthur wasn’t sure what made him feel so defensive — what compelled him to threaten the man. He leaned forwards, hands on the edge of the poker table. “Now firstly, we ain’t friends. Don’t make no mistake on that subject. Now secondly,” He raised a hand at Swanson, who looked as dazed and confused as ever, perhaps more now that Arthur had integrated himself into the problem. “He can’t hardly see, let alone reason. Now, reasonin’ ain’t never been one of my strong points either, but seein’ I do just fine. You wanna step outside, or deal with business here?”

“I just want him to finish the game!” He said, exasperated.

That’s when the Reverend popped in. “Why can’t we all just get along?” He didn’t sound unlike a child, voice confused and overwhelmed; he always got confused whenever he had too much to drink, and it never ended well when he reached that point.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at Swanson, who redirected his “preaching” from the three of them and only into Arthur. “These are good men, Arthur. They’re children of God…” the man’s voice hitched, and Arthur saw it coming from a mile away. “...They’re children of God…” He slipped off the table and landed on the floorboards with a thud, Arthur barely managing to back up a few feet and avoid being dragged down with him.

“Oh… well,” Arthur looked up at the man in the red shirt. “How’s about you play in his place, huh? That seems fair,”

Arthur scoffed. “Fair?”

The other man, who hadn’t spoken at all since the ordeal started, nodded in agreement and said, “Sure,”

“You wanna game?” The red-wearing, mutton chop-donning man said, voice tinged in some kind of tantalizing lilt that Arthur tried not to interpret as mockery.

It wasn’t because Arthur didn’t have the best of luck with card games, but because he simply didn’t want to play poker with a pair of fools the Reverend had most likely managed to rub the wrong way. So, he shook his head. “I can’t, partners. I don’t mean to spoil your fun, but I’ve got things to do,”

“You sure?”

“Quite sure. I gotta get him outta here,” he made to kick the Reverend’s unconscious body beside him. “C’mon, Reverend. Let’s get you…” His foot met empty air, and he held back a curse. Looking up at the two men, he asked in exasperation, “Where’d he go?”

The man returned it. “I don’t know! I was talking to you,”

Arthur sighed, long and full of annoyance. He nodded in departure and made his way outside, impatience and ire licking at his bones. Jesus, Swanson never makes matters easy for him, does he?

He was nowhere in sight when he left the building, and he called out several times and got nothing in response. Cursing, he set out, fuming beneath the seams and already coming up with a few choice words for the man once he found him. He asked a pair of men if they’d seen him, and they pointed him in the direction of the tracks, and Arthur immediately hoped the Reverend wasn’t feeling adventurous.

It didn’t take long to spot him, especially with the yelling. Swanson was being held by his shirt collar by a man — no, a woman — who was shouting angrily at him, looking seconds away from throwing a punch in the drunken man’s direction. Arthur made it a point to run towards the pair, but nearly stopped in his tracks when he realized who was about to punch the man.

“Hey, calm down, miss,”

“I don’t care that you’re a  _ preacher _ , dumbass, I’ll knock some sense into you no problem!”

“Robin!”

She looked up, eyes bright with a fury he often saw in the midst of a gunfight or behind the eyes of someone in a fistfight, giving him a look of surprise once she recognized him. She didn’t lessen her grip on Swanson, however. “Arthur?”

Arthur took a second to catch his breath, rubbing at the aching in his shoulder; he was still feeling the effects of getting his ass somewhat beaten by Tommy the day before. He sighed, waving a hand at the Reverend. “Let him go, he’s with me,”

She scoffed, glaring sharply at Swanson, who looked close to passing out again. “This  _ pervert _ is with you?”

Arthur nervously rubbed his neck, Robin making her anger incredibly clear with the way her voice came out threatening. “Unfortunately…”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head, releasing her grip on Swanson, who unsteadily repositioned himself on his feet, swaying like a branch in the wind. They both looked at him nervously, the liquor the man had consumed obviously clouding his senses severely. He was muttering frantic apologies with a voice so slurred it sounded like a different language.

Robin turned to Arthur, eyebrows raised. “He's just on alcohol…?”

Arthur shrugged, turning away from Swanson and meeting her gaze. “Honestly? I ain’t rightfully sure. Walked in on his playing poker, men with him saying he kept drinkin’,”

She nodded, and when she turned to look at Swanson, he was already long gone. Arthur cursed, already breaking out into a sprint as he caught sight of the man wandering up and over the hill. He ignored his protesting shoulder as he hauled himself towards the tracks, spitting out curses as what he dreaded Swanson would do happened right before his eyes. He could hear the sound of Robin’s boots beside him, and he found himself somewhat thankful that she decided to accompany him — most likely worried about the dumbass Reverend’s health; even Arthur knew mixing drugs and alcohol was far more dangerous than one or the other by themselves. She easily kept up with his pace, and they reached the tracks, which were thankfully clear of trains.

She leaned over for a second, catching her breath, wheezing slightly. “He do this often?”

“Wander around? Yes. Wander out onto train tracks? Can safely say  _ that’s _ a first,” He added with uncertainty, “As far as I’m aware,”

That’s when he spotted him, in the middle of the tracks on the bridge, stumbling and leaning far too close to the edge. He stopped abruptly, sending a pang of confusion and concern through Arthur’s chest.

Arthur broke out into a run. “Come on, my friend… It’s a simple mistake! You can… still be… s-saved?”

Robin smirked at his faltering attempt to religiously appeal to the Reverend. But her expression quickly dropped into one of panic. “His foot’s stuck in the track,”

It was. Swanson was down in a crouch, tugging at his leg and sputtering. Arthur increased his pace, pushing aside the aching in his recovering muscles and stopping beside him. “What have you done with your  _ foot _ ?”

“It appears to like this place and wants to stay,” his voice was much steadier now, either the liquor was wearing off or panic was smoothing out his senses.

He heard Robin mumble an “oh shit” before she shouted out in horror, “There’s a goddamn train coming!”

Arthur cursed, pulling the Reverend’s leg as strong as he could, ignoring the fact that it was most likely causing the man some pain. Robin rushed and moved around to Swanson’s front, gripping the man’s upper thigh and tugging, leaning in an attempt to ease his leg out of the wooden boards.

“Get your foot outta here, twist your leg, you drunken bastard!” Arthur hadn’t meant it in a mean way, but the words came out in a panicked snarl. The Reverend groaned at Arthur’s hands, which he were using to maneuver the man’s foot from its awkward angle in the planks.

That’s when his foot flew out from the boards, and Arthur barely had enough time to shove the man to the edge of the bridge and grab onto Robin’s arm, hauling them off the tracks and slamming into the railing. The train’s draft tore at his back, a mere few inches from running through his back. The horn was so loud it made his eardrums scream and his head vibrate. And then it was over, a final burst of wind strong enough to make him stumble slightly and the train was gone, continuing down the track at a speed that would’ve undoubtedly killed any one of them instantly.

Arthur groaned, gripping the Reverend’s arm and tossing it over his shoulder, pinning the man to his side as he bore his weight. The man was spitting and moaning, and he heard Robin mumbling a string of what sounded like curses in a language that might’ve been Spanish — Arthur didn’t goddamn know. He practically hauled the drunk off the tracks, bracing himself several times when Swanson stumbled on the uneven planks.

Once they reached flat ground, thank god, the Reverend removed himself from Arthur's side and enthusiastically exclaimed, “Thank you, sir!”

Robin let out an unsteady wheezing, a deep laugh that was alarmingly contagious, and maybe under different circumstances he would’ve laughed along with her. She hissed out in what sounded sort of like Spanish, “ _ Anak ka nang puta _ …”

Arthur threw his arm out and grabbed the Reverend’s wrist in a tight grip, perhaps tighter than necessary. “Ah-ah-ah, oh no you don’t,” It was kind of an accident; he dragged the Reverend off from the direction he was going and threw him in the opposite one, making the man stumble and land flat on his back. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

The Reverend was quick to retaliate, throwing himself onto his feet and whipping around to face Arthur. He shouted in shared anger, words sharp and lacking a slur as a result. “What the hell is wrong with  _ you _ ?! Throwing me off a bridge like that!”

Arthur extended an arm, gesturing impatiently at the tracks they’d narrowly escaped getting mowed down on. “There was a goddamn train you crazy bastard!”

His face quickly fell, replaced with bewilderment and shame. He let out a panicked release of breath, eyes wide and glazed with fright. “Have I been bad again, Mister Morgan?”

Arthur sighed, shaking his head and immediately feeling guilt settle in his gut. He paced a couple steps, feeling uncomfortable when the Reverend began to cry and whine.

Arthur was  _ not _ good with comforting people, especially when they were as drunk as sensitive as Swanson. He tried not to look as relieved as he felt when Robin stepped in, placing a hand on the man’s slouching shoulders and speaking to him in a warm and steady voice. “You just made a mistake Reverend,”

“I wish I was different,” he sputtered out, words laced with sorrow. He seemed to calm down slightly when Robin ran a circle around his shoulder.

“We all do, Reverend, I think so,” She looked up at Arthur, nodding her head at the Reverend. 

It felt kind of awkward approaching the man when he was in such a sorrowful state. He patting Swanson on the shoulder a couple times, Robin backing away to allow him the space to do so, and calmly said to the man, “Let’s get you home,”

Swanson took a few unsteady breaths, beginning to calm down. “Home… Yeah, that’s a wonderful idea,” A wistful look passed over his face, and Arthur sighed, sensing another inebriated facet. “I could have tea with Margaret,”

“Margaret? Who’s Margaret?”

“My…” He leaned back haphazardly, falling to the ground in a boneless heap. All Arthur could do was gesture in exasperation, watching as the man settled into full-fledged unconsciousness.

Silence descended on the area, the twittering of the birds and small chatter from the nearby station the only sounds breaking it. He turned to face Robin, who had been watching the ordeal unfold with a puzzled but slightly amused look on her face. “That was… something,”

Arthur chuckled. “He usually ain’t this bad…”

She didn’t press him, merely nodding. Her focus shifted to the unconscious drunkard on the ground. “Can I check him out?”

Arthur shrugged. “Suit yourself,”

She whistled, calling the attention of her horse (he assumed), the sound of its hooves colliding with the ground as a beautiful Turkoman gelding approached. It had an odd grey pattern, speckled like dots of ashes against its deep silver coat. She didn’t waste time searching the saddlebags, bringing out a small box with a handle he recognized as a first aid kid.

Settling down beside the Reverend, Robin began to examine the man, who had begun to mumble incoherently in his unconsciousness. Arthur lowered himself into a crouch on the man’s opposite side, eyes narrowed as he took in the darker-than-usual bags beneath his eyes as the slight flush on his face.

“Laudanum or opium, do you know?” She asked, peeling back the man’s eyes and looking slightly displeased when his pupils were almost as large as his irises.

It wasn’t a difficult question. The Reverend had been a stable, grounded man. He’d fallen off that wagon and into the arms of debauchery many years ago. Why, Arthur had no clue, but he had a few suspicions. He’d lost his job and his family, which would’ve undoubtedly contributed to his venturing into alcoholism and addiction. He was still a good man, caring and kind, but his decisions regarding his pastimes have whittled away at his mind and has been steadily driving the man towards madness. It was difficult to watch, but Dutch — the entire gang — wouldn’t abandon the man; he didn’t deserve that.

Arthur knew he regularly drank and took drugs, obviously, but he wasn’t sure what kind. He’d been with the gang long enough that Arthur sort of knew what he was taking, but it wasn’t until he found the man’s bible that he had a definitive idea of along what lines the drugs were. Still, he wasn’t sure, but he knew it was strong enough to warrant a needle and took apart his health like it wasn’t anything greater than a sixteen-piece puzzle.

“I ain’t sure. I found a syringe and a little bottle of something clear some time ago, but he might’ve been taking something else,” Arthur answered honestly, even though he knew it was a personal matter for Swanson. Saying it was for the betterment of the man’s health, maybe even his life, had justified it to an extent that his conscience didn’t have much trouble accepting it.

There was a thoughtful look on her face for a moment. “Probably morphine,” She grabbed his wrist, taking his pulse. When she pursed her lips, Arthur found himself worrying.

“He gonna be alright?”

He sighed when she shrugged. “That’s the thing about drugs, especially potent ones like morphine and laudanum. They’re similar in ways that make it difficult to tell what one he’s on. I can tell he likes his liquor, and I can see the marks on his forearms…”

Arthur saw them too, a testament of Swanson’s extended drug use. It was a shock the man had survived as long as he had; it might’ve been dumb luck that he hadn’t overdosed or gotten himself killed. Look what just happened, for God’s sake, he drew the attention of trouble whenever a bottle touched his lips or a needle pressed against his skin. Arthur felt bad for the man, but he didn’t know the effects of addiction, and he wasn’t the right man to comfort or guide him. He wasn’t sure anyone could guide the Reverend at this point.

“It’s probably best to get him back to wherever he sleeps,” Robin said, rising to her feet. “He’ll go through withdrawal, and in combination with the hangover coming his way, I’m not sure how he’ll turn out — I’ll be honest,”

Arthur sighed long and hard, rubbing a hand down his face. She’d essentially told him that there was a good chance of the Reverend dying after all of this, and it hurt thinking about it. The camp couldn’t handle another death, and the stress of Blackwater and John’s attack weighed heavily on the gang as a whole. Reverend was a giant ball of trouble and oftentimes inconvenience, but they cared for him, and he didn’t deserve to die.

It probably wasn’t a good idea, but as he leaned down and threw the Reverend over his shoulder, he found himself asking anyway. “Wanna tag along? Might need your help if what you say might happen, happens,”

He watched her carefully as she considered his offer. Dutch most likely wouldn’t be pleased with him bringing a stranger to camp, even if she were a doctor — someone they really needed right now. While she seemed trustworthy, Arthur couldn’t know for sure. She  _ had _ saved his life, but she didn’t know who they were, who  _ he _ was.

He kind of went out on a limb; maybe the ordeal had exhausted him to the point where his intuition was getting ignored. “We, um, we ain’t exactly  _ good _ people,”

She raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a scar running along the side of her left eyebrow, near her temple. “What do you mean?”

“I’m in a gang, hiding from the law,” It wasn’t enough information for her to set the law on them, as Arthur already knew the law was looking for them; if she sought them out and told them who he was, they wouldn’t exactly be receiving any new information…

“You an O’Driscoll?” She spat the name out with a venom that caught him off guard, and he resisted a flinch at the anger behind her words.

“What? Absolutely not,” He shifted the Reverend on his shoulder when the man squirmed slightly. His shoulder was beginning to protest at having a full-grown man laying over it, nothing but dead weight.

“Then frankly, I don’t really care what kind of people you are,” Her voice returned to that steady lilt with the foreign accent — Filipino, if he remembered correctly.

He eyed her suspiciously. “Really…?”

She shrugged. “I want to see him—“ she nodded at the Reverend. “—get back safely. He seems like a good man, someone who doesn’t deserve to die, so I’ll do what I can. Anyways, my conscience couldn’t handle it if I left when I could've helped,”

She seemed genuine, honest, and it was rather refreshing. Arthur made his way to the Tennessee Walker, tossing the Reverend onto the horse’s flank, resulting in strangled, drunken laughter from the drunkard. Arthur pulled himself into the saddle, pleased when he spotted Robin doing the same, and kicked his horse into a trot.

They followed alongside the train tracks for a short while before Swanson appeared to have gained consciousness enough to grumble out a dazed, “Where am I?”

He heard Robin chuckle to his right, and Arthur replied to the man, “Headin’ back,”

Swanson groaned in response, whether it was a reply to his words or an unconscious reaction, Arthur didn’t really care.

They turned off of the tracks and onto a pathway through the trees, Arthur leading the way through what were beginning to be familiar trails. The Reverend used the moment of silence to mumble out some more meaningless words that might’ve held some meaning for him, but didn’t make a lick of sense to Arthur.

“A flush of diamonds.” His words made Robin bark out a laugh, and Arthur felt an amused smirk flood onto his face.

“Wonder what’s happening inside that head of his,” she commented, and Arthur found himself thinking the same thing.

“Probably thinks he’s still playing poker,” When Robin gave him a questioning look, he elaborated. “Found him hardly coherent around a poker table. He managed to squirm away when I wasn’t lookin’ — mind me askin’ what happened between you two?”

“He kind of groped me,” She said it in a dismissing way, even though Arthur found himself feeling somewhat offended by the Reverend’s actions.

“Maybe I shoulda let you punch him,”

She laughed. “Maybe, but I think nearly getting hit by a train smacked more sense into him than any fist to the face could,”

“I agree with you there,” Arthur caught the sight of the wagons between the trees. “Comin’ up on camp now. Let me do the talkin’, they’re not the most trustin’ bunch,”

“Okay,”

The Reverend let out a high-pitched groan once they entered Horseshoe Overlook. Arthur dismounted his horse and hitched him to one of the posts, Robin doing the same. It was a couple hours last midday now, meaning the camp was alight with activity. Dutch had his gramophone playing, he spotted Charles and Javier chatting around the stew pot, Hosea sitting at the table with a book in his lap. Arthur hauled the Reverend over his shoulder, praying to whatever higher power that he didn’t vomit down his back, and made his way to the man’s bed.

Hosea looked up at hearing the Reverend groan and mumble some incoherent words. His eyes quickly targeted Robin, and he rose to his feet, and Arthur immediately felt a sense of dread when he caught the suspicious look on the man’s face.

Arthur stopped his steps, facing Hosea as the man approached them. He crossed his arms, making his displeasure clear. While his voice was somewhat polite, the tension in his words were evident. “Who's this, Arthur?”

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but Robin quickly cut him off. “Robin Rivera, I’m a doctor. I just wanted to make sure the Reverend returned home alright,”

“She’s the one who took that glass outta my throat,” Arthur added, and Hosea’s tension seemed to lessen a bit. “Ran into her at the train station, she helped me with Swanson,” he left out the part about Swanson nearly killing them all, but that was a story for another day, preferably one after Arthur had a nice nap.

“You stitched his neck up real nice,” Robin said, earning a chuckle from Hosea.

“I’ve had some practice,” He turned to face Arthur and waved a hand at the Reverend. “Go drop him off at his bed, I’ll send Grimshaw his way. I would like to have a little chat with Miss Rivera here for a moment,”

He might’ve spoken in a nonchalant way, but Arthur knew he was going to conduct a polite interrogation of Robin. He hesitated for a moment, but she nodded in a reassuring way — at least, it reassured him. “He needs to rest,”

Arthur nodded, making his way towards Swanson’s bedroll. Someone had set up his tent towards the back of the camp, and a couple comments were sent his way as he hauled the man across camp. He couldn’t hear Robin or Hosea, but he caught sight of Dutch making his way towards the two, looking a bit indignant.

He deposited the Reverend onto his bedroll, the motion waking the man up and sending him into a confused daze. “You better sleep your way to salvation, my friend,”

Grimshaw appeared beside him, walking up and huffing out an exasperated sigh. “Oh, what happened?”

“Just… the usual,”

“Poor bastard,” She sighed again, watching in worry as Swanson started crawling around his bedroll.

“Exactly,”

She turned and met his gaze. “Well, thank you, Mister Morgan. I’ll keep an eye on him,”

“I, um, brought the woman who got that glass outta my neck,” Arthur said, Grimshaw looking up at him with an annoyed look on her features. “She’s a doctor, said there’s a chance he might not, well, he might have some trouble getting through this one,”

Grimshaw was probably the most distrustful of them all, and she wasn’t merciful when it came to it. He’d been most worried about her when it came to introducing Robin to the camp, but she seemed more worried about the Reverend than Robin at the moment. His words had brought forth a new kind of concern, one without exasperation, but pure fear that there was a chance of the poor man dying.

“He was lucky this time.  _ Real _ lucky,” he turned and made his way towards Hosea, Dutch, and Robin, all looking somewhat tense, especially Dutch.

As he got closer, he caught fragments of the conversation, acutely aware of how Dutch’s voice was bright with displeasure. “How do we know you’re telling us the truth, Miss Rivera?”

“I’ll vouch for her, Dutch,” The three looked at him as he approached. “She saved my life,”

“She could be working for the O’Driscolls,” Dutch protested, sounding kind of paranoid, but with everything that had happened, Arthur wasn’t surprised that he was on edge.

Robin’s voice was heavy with irritation, maybe more anger than distaste. “I do  _ not _ work for those bastards, Mister Van der Linde, that’s for  _ goddamn _ sure,”

“She wouldn’t have saved Arthur’s life if she were working for Colm, Dutch. It would’ve been the perfect opportunity to get one of us out of the way, you have to admit,” Hosea must’ve decided Robin was worth trusting during the time Arthur was sorting out the Reverend.

Dutch considered Hosea’s words for a moment, stroking his chin in thought. He sighed, not looking convinced, but satisfied enough to say, “Fine. Go help with the Reverend, make sure he gets out of this alright,”

“I’ll do my best,” Her words were sincere, and she nodded in thanks as she made her way through the camp. Arthur made a movement to follow her, but Dutch wrapped a hand around his arm, stopping him.

“I want to speak with you, son,” Dutch led him into his tent, Hosea following closely behind. Arthur wasn’t sure if leaving Robin alone in a camp full of wary strangers was a good idea, but it didn’t seem he had much of a choice, and he was relatively certain Robin could handle herself if anyone got any funny ideas.

Dutch restarted the gramophone, most likely to cover up some of their conversation. Arthur waited patiently as he did so, Hosea following suit. Once he finished, Dutch ran a hand down his face, suddenly looking several years older. “Bringing  _ strangers _ into camp, Arthur? Really?”

“She ain’t entirely a stranger, Dutch,” It wasn’t very good reasoning and it sounded kind of pathetic once he said it, but he was going to vouch for Robin, especially since she wasn’t here to do so herself.

“We don't know a thing about her, Arthur,”

“She’s got some  _ bad _ blood with the O’Driscolls,” Hosea said from his spot leaning against the pole of Dutch’s tent, arms crossed and a pensive look on his face. “You saw how angry she got when we accused her of being one of ‘em,”

“She could be a spy,” Dutch hissed, meeting Hosea’s gaze. Arthur tried not to say anything snarky — Dutch  _ had _ kind of set him up to do so — knowing all it would do was stir up tension between them. 

A thought occurred to Arthur, an idea that might settle things as best as they could right now. “Ask that O’Driscoll boy we got tied that tree,”

They looked at him, then at each other, and then back to Arthur. Hosea was the one who spoke. “The boy might have some information, if she were — is — running with them,”

“He’s already terrified of us, what with Bill threatenin’ to geld him,” He thought back to Bill holding the heated tongs, the boy sputtering and panicking. While it had been somewhat amusing, Arthur still felt slightly guilty for tormenting the kid. But he was an O’Driscoll, no matter how many times he insisted he wasn’t and how short of a time he’d ran with them.

That seemed to satisfy Dutch. He waved a hand at the two of them. “Alright, see what he says,”

The boy was right where they left him, unsurprisingly, looking like shit and smelling somewhat of it; it made Arthur feel bad, but they still didn’t know if he could be trusted. He watched with fearful eyes as Arthur and Hosea approached him, straightening up and pushing himself higher up the tree, probably expecting the worse. Bill’s threatening and the general mistreatment from a majority of the gang had pretty much dissolved any resistance the boy might’ve had, and he didn’t hesitate to spill his guts whenever someone asked anything of him. Arthur could tell he was being honest, because men tended to be truthful when they’re threatened with getting their balls burnt off, and he continued to be honest since that ordeal. 

“O’Driscoll, I need to talk to you,” Arthur said, knowing the response he’d receive; Kieran was  _ very _ adamant about his relationship with that gang.

“I ain’t an O’Driscoll, Mister,” He sounded defeated, and Arthur began to feel a bit bad teasing him like he was.

Hosea was nicer to Kieran than the majority of the others were, but he also didn’t talk to the boy very much. “Was there ever a Robin Rivera running with Colm?”

Kieran looked puzzled for a second, obviously thinking very long and hard about the question. “I-I don’t think so,” He looked expectantly at Hosea, remembering something. “But I think there  _ was _ a Rivera who hung around sometimes. He were a man, though,”

It sent a pang of dread into Arthur’s chest and he dragged a hand down his face, turning away from Kieran, who was starting to apologize unnecessarily to Hosea. God, it wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but it was  _ entirely _ unexpected as well. Robin had been defensive about her past, he could tell it wasn’t full of happy memories — the way she related with the bit he’d revealed about his childhood was a sympathy only acquired through a similar experience — and she had answered vaguely during their small conversation at the saloon. Kieran has no reason to lie, and Rivera wasn’t exactly a common last name in these parts. A family member, most likely, and he hoped it was some sort of coincidence but that was reaching very,  _ very _ far.

Hosea seemed to share in some of Arthur’s disappointment, but was also as uncertain as he was. “Could be happenstance,”

“Maybe,” Arthur rubbed at his forehead, feeling the tension forming behind his skull. “But we need her — the Reverend ain’t lookin’ too good, Hosea,”

“Yes,” Hosea glanced towards John’s tent. “I’d like her to take a look at John, too, truthfully,”

“Before I brought her here I told her what we were,” When Hosea transitioned to a irked expression, Arthur quickly remedied himself. “ _ Only _ that we were somethin’ of an ‘undesirable’ group of people. She said so long as we weren’t O’Driscolls, she didn’t care,”

Hosea considered that for a second before voicing his thoughts aloud. “She’s got a grudge with that gang, that’s for sure,”

“Didn’t pry,” Arthur said. “Ain’t my business,”

“Gonna have to tell Dutch, son,” Hosea eyed him wearily, making Arthur sigh — he’d been doing that an awful lot lately.

“I t-think his name was Rodrigo,”

They both turned and faced Kieran, who wilted slightly under their sharp gazes. Truthfully, Arthur had kind of forgotten he was there, and apparently Hosea had as well. But Arthur figured he might as well put the boy to good use, and he asked him somewhat pointedly, “What’d he look like,”

“I, um, o-only saw him a few times, sir,” He stuttered, making Arthur impatient but he didn’t express that. “I think he looked… Mexican or s-something? Kind of, t-tanned? H-had an accent…”

Arthur couldn’t hold back a quiet curse, looking up and meeting Hosea’s gaze. “He ain’t Mexican — he’s Filipino,” Robin could’ve passed as Mexican if she wanted to — had the fair skin for it — but Kieran’s description was enough of a confirmation; Robin had a relative working for the O'Driscolls, or at least interacting with them. It brought a wave of suspicions that Arthur felt bad considering. Robin had been nothing but helpful, and frankly, he didn’t want to see her tied up next to Kieran or possibly with a bullet in her skull…

Running a hand down his face in an attempt to loosen the tension blossoming in his head, Arthur gave Kieran a halfhearted thanks and allowed Hosea to lead him to Dutch’s tent, the owner leaning against the supports with a cigarette pinched between his fingers. He wasn’t looking forward to talking to him, that’s for sure, and he felt the urge to turn around and head towards the Reverend’s tent instead. But he figured Dutch would call him over anyways.

He took a final drag from his cigarette before dropping it and extinguishing it beneath his boot. “Well?”

Hosea gave Arthur a look, and Arthur shrugged in response, allowing the older man to take the lead; he’d always been better at getting through to Dutch than Arthur ever could. “She's not with the O’Driscolls,”

Dutch raised an eyebrow, “But…?”

“But…” Hosea sighed. “She’s got a relative doing  _ something _ with Colm,”

“She ain’t loyal to them,” Arthur tried not to sound pleading, but he was already sensing Dutch’s displeasure — maybe even his choice to lead her out of camp at gunpoint. “And we need her Dutch,”

“Susan can handle the Reverend,”

“What about John?”

It caused Dutch to hesitate, but he recovered quickly. “We can’t risk her leading O’Driscolls straight to camp,”

“She ain’t gonna do that!”

“How do we know that, Arthur?” God, he  _ hated _ when Dutch got like this, all…  _ patronizing _ . It made him feel like a teenager again, when his word wasn’t taken as seriously as it would’ve if he were an adult. Now he was one, and Dutch was doing that frustrating thing where he wouldn’t listen to reason — to anything anyone would say. He’d made his decision as soon as Robin walked into camp, and it was clear as day that he wasn’t going to be persuaded otherwise.

“Because I’ll kill each and every one of those bastards if they get anywhere near me,”

Robin entered the tent, eyes alight with determination, maybe even a bit of offense, and certainly anger. She looked almost like she was going to hit one of them, fists clenched tightly by her sides. Dutch crossed his arms when he turned to face her, and it only served as fuel to an anger Arthur definitely didn’t want to be on the receiving end of.

Her words were as sharp as a blade, cutting through the tension in the air and burrowing straight into their eardrums. “My bastard of a brother is fucking around with them. I don’t know what he’s doing, but that man is a monster. Now, I don’t care what you think of me — trust me, hate me, I don’t give a shit — but the Reverend’s gonna be in some tough shit and that man a few tents over needs some  _ actual _ medical attention,” She met Dutch’s accusing gaze head-on, challenging him; nobody challenges Dutch without consequences, and Robin didn’t care. “It’s your decision;  _ don’t _ make the wrong one,”

It was then that Arthur truly started to respect her, not just because of her determination and kindness (perhaps not in this moment, but in the past), but because she genuinely cared. The Reverend had nearly gotten her killed but she followed him into the lion’s den to make sure he had a chance at survival, and now she’d noticed John — a stranger — and wanted to help him, too. People like her were rare; people who actually gave a shit were like diamonds amongst piles of shit, and after everything that had happened recently, it was a breath of fresh air the gang needed.

Dutch didn’t see that, but Robin had unknowingly played a trump card in a game that wasn’t in her favor; John. Dutch wouldn’t see the man die, even if it meant trusting a stranger — a potentially dangerous one.

He didn’t hide his distaste at the situation, and Dutch shook his head before answering. “Keep an eye on her, Arthur,”

Arthur nodded, noticing how Robin’s eyes made a motion that looked like she was going to roll them but decided against it. It almost made him laugh, but he figured he shouldn’t test what was already thin ice. Leading Robin out of the tent, Arthur urged her into the direction of John’s tent. She’d gotten her medical kit at some point, holding it with a grip far tighter than necessary; Arthur could tell she was still buzzing with anger, but it dissolved once they reached John’s tent.

It had only been a couple days since he was attacked up in the mountains, but he’d improved to an extent. Abigail was beside him, a tiny bit of tension in the air that signaled at a dissolved argument of some kind; always bickering, those two, and always getting back together as if nothing had happened. The poor woman looked exhausted, what with fretting over her mangled husband and having a hyperactive four-year-old to worry about. Blackwater hadn’t done her any favors, either, and the upheaval hadn’t been easy on Jack, either.

Abigail eyed Robin suspiciously when she settled down next to John, who was resting heavily it seemed. “Who are you?”

“I’m a doctor. I’d like to check up on him, if that’s alright with you…?” Her voice was a drastic shift from the words laced heavily in angry electricity, tone returning to that soft speech with a familiar warm accent.

Abigail was so exhausted that she didn’t bother to protest, and Arthur found himself sympathizing with the woman. “Just… his name is John,”

“Got attacked by wolves,” Arthur felt he needed to take over for Abigail, who excused herself to go looking for Jack. The woman was in desperate need of sleep, but with all the worrying, sleep seemed to constantly elude her.

She leaned over John, carefully peeling back some of the bandages on his face and examining the wounds beneath. “You see any of them?”

“I was one of the men who found him,”

“Did they look strange?” She inquired, Arthur finding the question rather odd.

“What do you mean?” John stirred a bit at their conversation, but settled back into sleep quickly.

“Like they were… sick?” She’d moved to John’s abdomen, removing sections of the bandages with a steady, experienced hand. “Fur tangled or discolored, falling out maybe?”

“You asking if any of them might’ve had rabies?” When she nodded, Arthur thought back to the wolves that had attacked him and Javier as they’d hauled John from that cliff side. There hadn’t been a lot of animals up there, and he’d gotten an alarmingly close look at the wolves when they’d lunged at him. “We were up in the mountains, not a lot of wildlife up there. Got a pretty good look at the bastards and they looked healthy to me,” he gestured to John. “Starved, obviously, but naw, nothin’ that looked like rabies,”

She seemed satisfied; one potentially deadly problem eliminated. Her hands ran carefully along the edges of the bandages on his chest, carefully peeling them off. The bleeding had died down significantly, but the wounds were deep enough that they still bled dully. The process had woken John, and Arthur caught him stirring.

“Lazy bastard,” Arthur teased, John chuckling quietly; anything more than that would’ve tweaked his wounds.

“Maybe you should try it sometime,” John grumbled, but the humor in his words were clear.

“What, layin’ around?”

“No, getting half-eaten by wolves, asshole,”

Arthur rolled his eyes, the teasing familiar; he’d kind of missed it. Their relationship hadn’t been the best lately. He held a grudge against the man for leaving Jack and Abigail, and it had tarnished their brotherly bond in a way Arthur wasn’t sure was repairable. Something inside of him knew it was petty, but he couldn’t let it go. Maybe he didn’t want to, maybe his pride prevented him from being  _ mature _ and apologizing for how much of an ass towards him he’d been since. Regardless, things weren’t the same between them, and Arthur wished that wasn’t the case.

John hissed as Robin peeled away the bandages, eyeing her accusingly but quickly switching to confusion when he didn’t recognize her face. “Who the hell are you?”

“Name’s Robin,” She opened the first aid kit, pulling out a bottle of transparent liquid and pouring some of it onto a rag. “I’m a doctor. Figured I’d check you out,”

John gave Arthur a puzzled look. “But… why are you here?”

“Went and fetched the dumbass Reverend,” Arthur said. “He’s not lookin’ the best, needed a doctor and Robin happened to be nearby,”

“Do you know each other or something?”

Robin laughed, pressing the rag to the slash on John’s chest, apologizing when the man hissed in pain. “Guess he don’t know about the saloon?”

Arthur rubbed at his neck, lightly running his fingers along the stitches. It still ached, but at least he wasn’t coughing up blood each time he tried to speak. He could already hear John’s teasing; he’d conveniently been in a deep bout of unconsciousness yesterday, missing the entire ordeal. “Got in a bar fight with Charles, Bill, and Javier…”

“We’ve been here for  _ two _ days,” John said incredulously, looking at him with amusement across his bandaged features.

“I ain’t the one who started it,” Arthur countered. “Bill was up to his usual dumbassery and managed to sic some giant bastard on me, threw me out a window,”

John gestured weakly at Arthur’s neck. “He do that?”

“Nope, the  _ window _ did,” Arthur sighed when John quirked an eyebrow, egging him to explain further. “Shard of glass went through my damn neck,”

“What?!” John’s jaw dropped in shock, staring at the stitches like they were going to fall out and blood would shoot out of the — healing — hole in his neck. “How’d you not… die?”

He nodded at Robin, suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed at John’s worry. The kid had a tendency to fret about everything and anything, but also nothing at all. Arthur could tell that being immobile and out of the loop was tearing him apart inside; John never managed to sit still for long. At least Jack had used his father’s immobility to spend some time with him — not enough, in Arthur’s opinion.

“Thought there weren’t female doctors,”

“Really, John?”

“No, he’s right,” Robin didn’t sound offended, even though John’s inquiry had been uncalled for. She explained in a casual tone, and Arthur had a feeling she was used to answering questions like John’s. “My father was one, taught me almost everything I know. Went freelance after he lost his license,”

“What do you mean ‘lost his license?’” Arthur asked, more curious than concerned; Robin obviously knew her stuff and he’d already decided a while ago that she was perfectly capable of doctoring — didn’t matter that she wasn’t a man and didn’t have a piece of paper labeling her as a medical “professional.”

“There was this… man where I lived,” She started to reapply John’s bandages, gesturing for Arthur to help transition the man into a sitting position. Arthur quickly complied, feeling John tense at the movements and stubbornly holding back a pained noise. She was careful wrapping the bandages around his torso, much more…  _ merciful _ than Grimshaw was. He caught a glimpse of relief on John’s face when he realized that, and he traded a look with Arthur — he couldn’t tell  _ exactly _ that look meant, but he understood it, nonetheless.

She continued. “He was a creep, messed around with kids,” It sparked a bright moment of anger in Arthur’s chest and he found himself hoping the man was dead. “The law couldn’t do anything because there wasn’t any ‘evidence,’” She scoffed. “He got hurt working on his ranch and they took him to my father’s office; he killed him,”

“Good,” John beat him to it. “People like that… deserve it,”

“Of course,” Robin said. “But legally… not so much. Revoked his license, since  _ murder _ isn’t very  _ professional _ , and so we left for Mexico. He kept practicing once we got there, but he had shifted to what could be considered ‘undesirable’ folk,”

“Folk like us?” John’s couldn’t hide a bit of defensiveness in his tone.

“Yep,” She replied, unphased by the subtle hostility on John’s words. “And folk worse than you, folk who shouldn’t have been helped — shouldn’t be  _ alive _ , even,”

She left it at that, and Arthur found himself not wanting to know; it was clearly a private matter, anyways. He had encountered plenty of men who were “undesirable,” knew of others who were monsters, some who were animals. There were people in the world who were better off dead, and as morbid as it sounded, perhaps killing them wouldn’t be so bad. He couldn’t imagine  _ helping _ them, saving their lives, even. He wondered for a moment what could’ve compelled Robin’s father to do such a thing, but the answer came to him quickly:  _ money _ .

There was a heavy look in her eyes for a moment, but it vanished quickly enough that Arthur questioned whether it had been there in the first place. She wrapped the bandages tightly around John’s torso, tight enough to keep the wounds in place but loose enough to prevent any pain. The handiwork was a display of a professional hand, the bandages secure and flat. Arthur helped John reposition him back on the bedroll, the man looking relieved to be flat again.

“You’ll have some scars, but given some rest and time to heal, you’ll be back on your feet in no time,” It sent a wave of relief through Arthur, releasing him from a worry he hadn’t properly acknowledged. John was strong, sure, but even the strongest of men could succumb to injuries far milder than the ones inflicted by wolves.

“I’m sure you’re lookin’ forward to some more beauty sleep, Marston,”

“Shut  _ up _ , Arthur,”

Robin scoffed quietly at their squabbling, collecting her things and positioning them like a jigsaw puzzle in that little box. She rose to her feet once everything was wrapped up, Arthur following suit. John was already shutting his eyes, and Arthur didn’t have the inclination to tease him any further; he might be an asshole, but not enough of one to interrupt another man’s rest.

He felt strange following her, like a lost puppy or something, but he didn’t trust the gang to treat her like she was anything more than a suspicious stranger. Whether she didn’t care or didn’t notice, Arthur couldn’t tell, but she strode across camp like she’d been there her entire life, confident —  _ relaxed _ , even. Arthur could feel the tension in the air. It had to be the worst time for her to visit camp, for any stranger or individual outside of the gang to do so. Each and every one of them were wound up after Blackwater and the subsequent mess in the mountains. It had been an upheaval none of them had expected, and the effects of it were evident.

He caught Tilly and Mary-Beth sitting beneath one of their tents, hiding themselves from the sun and mumbling the hushed whispers of gossip. He knew they were talking about Robin, it was obvious with the way they were staring at her — not in a hostile way, thankfully, but with that nosy curiosity that women tended to have. Hosea was pretending to be reading, his chair leaning rather dangerously on its back legs, his eyes flicking up and in their direction periodically. 

Dutch, on the other hand, made no attempts to hide his uneasy staring. He leaned against the support of his tent, cigar in his mouth and watching Robin with a narrow gaze. He caught Arthur looking and gave him a look that sent a very clear message:  _ watch yourself _ . Dutch was the tensest of them all, even though he hid it behind his optimism and charisma. It hadn’t quite reached paranoia yet, but Arthur found himself questioning the man’s wellbeing.

The Turkoman shuffled his hooves as they approached, obviously weary about Arthur but pleased to see his rider. She got to work securing the kit into her saddlebags, and Arthur caught the quick glint of a holster amidst the leather, a revolver tucked away. It was a good decision on her part, leaving her weapon far away from her person; if there was one thing worse than a stranger, it was an armed one.

“Plan on stickin’ around,” Arthur questioned, resting his thumbs on the holster around his waist.

“I won’t disturb you for long,” She gave the Turkoman a soft rub down his neck, the horse giving a pleased nicker. “Just wanna watch the Reverend for a couple hours, see what direction he’s looking to take,”

Arthur nodded in understanding. He found himself enjoying her company — it was refreshing, genuine, and she seemed like a good person. He hadn’t encountered good people in a while and he’d been beginning to believe they’d all but vanished. “Grimshaw’s with him. S’not the first time he’s come back like this,”

“He seems like a good man, just… lost,” She turned to face him, an inquiring look on her features. “Can I ask a question?”

He chuckled. “‘Course,”

“There a reason that kid is tied to a tree?” The way she said it almost made him laugh. Her words were inappropriately casual, as if a man looking and smelling like shit, with his arms tied back behind a tree, eyeing the camp like it was populated by wolves wasn’t weird at all.

He was about to answer, but halted himself. He thought back to that anger, the fury in her eyes when she was accused of being an O’Driscoll, something like pain behind her emerald irises when her brother was brought up — used against her, even. There was a vicious past there, terrible memories or brutal experiences burning passionately. She didn’t need to explain it to him — she had made it explicitly clear that she hated the O’Driscolls with vehemence, maybe even Colm himself. Maybe saying that one of them was hanging around a few paces away, easily able to be beaten to a pulp or skinned like a deer, wasn’t a good idea.

Arthur told her anyways. “Caught him up in the mountains — he’s an O’Driscoll,”

It was like lifting a match to a dynamite’s fuse. He saw venom swirl in her eyes, limbs tensing slightly, but she held back that rage; Arthur doubted he could do the same. “I wanna talk to him,”

“I, um, don’t think that’s the best idea,” Arthur tried to make it sound like a suggestion and not a deterrent, worried of possibly pushing her towards that anger even faster.

“I’m not gonna kill him,” She scoffed, scratching at the scar on her temple. “Just want to ask him about my brother,”

It was the first time she’d willingly mentioned him. She’d been consistently honest towards him, even though they were hardly anything more than acquaintances. “Okay, but… could you check on Swanson first?”

“Sure,” Arthur led the way to the Reverend’s tent, hearing the man’s mumbling as he approached. Robin was closely following beside him, somewhat awkward with the height difference between them. 

Grimshaw had deposited herself beside the man, who was going on about  _ something _ , voice too slurred and words too convoluted to be even remotely understandable. She looked up when they approached, eyeing Robin and undoubtedly making some conclusions about her. Grimshaw was a good judge of character, and if anyone could determine whether or not Robin was a threat (of any kind), it was her.

The Reverend was squirming around on his bedroll. He might’ve been covered by it, judging by the blanket lying in a clump near his feet, but he was moving around too much to stay wrapped in it. Robin was watching the man’s movements closely, perhaps seeing something he nor Grimshaw could see. There were gears of some kind turning in her head, most likely shuffling through a bunch of medical gibberish Arthur couldn’t wrap his head around.

“You’re the doctor?” Grimshaw questioned as Robin lowered herself beside the Reverend, needing to keep a bit of distance from his wandering limbs.

“Yeah,” Her hand snatched one of the Reverend’s working arms, putting a hand around his wrist and taking his pulse. It was quiet for a second while she did so. Grimshaw watched intently while she did so, analyzing Robin's movements with a precise eye; Arthur could see her trying to pick her apart, see beneath the clam expression on her face, determining what kind of woman she was. Grimshaw was  _ too good  _ at reading people — it’s what made her such a dangerous poker player.

“I’m sorry!” Swanson squawked, lurching forward into a semblance of a sitting position, eyes watering and instantly making Arthur feel the urge to leave the man in the hands of more sympathetic, understanding people. “I’m sorry, miss! I’m a fool! An utter  _ fool _ !”

“It’s not your fault, Reverend,” She released his hand, which fell to the man’s side bonelessly. “Honest mistake,”

Arthur scoffed, earning a puzzled look from Grimshaw with a tinge of scolding. He took that as his cue to leave. “I’m gonna go talk to Dutch, got some things to discuss,”

“Alright, Arthur,” Grimshaw returned her attention to the Reverend, Robin doing the same. He figured she would come and find him once she was finished here, and so Arthur made his way to Dutch’s tent.

He wasn’t there, and it didn’t take long to spot him, his bright red vest and expensive jacket easily identifiable amongst them. He was standing beside Kieran with Bill, who had an expression of borderline joy on his face; never a good sign, Bill must be threatening to geld the boy again. He found enjoyment in tormenting people and while Arthur trusted the man to watch his back in any circumstance, he never trusted the man to restrain himself.

Kieran’s head whipped around to face him once he saw Arthur approaching, looking more terrified than Arthur had ever seen him. Yep, Bill had  _ definitely _ threatened to geld him again. It was only when Arthur caught Bill holding the pair of smoking tongs and the man’s private regions exposed that Arthur realized that he’d gone past words and towards action.

“You sick bastards!” Kieran cried, voice pitched with fear as he squirmed against the tree, attempting to push himself away from the tongs and towards  _ somewhere _ else. “What do you want from me?”

“Well, you  _ are _ going to talk,” Dutch spoke in that charming lilt that would’ve been seen at a fancy dinner party, and maybe not next to a tortured O’Driscoll tied half-naked to a tree. “The only question is now… or after we get these little fellers off,”

Arthur shook his head at the scene in front of him. That’s when Kieran practically screamed, “Okay! Okay? Listen, I know where O’Driscoll’s holed up, and you’re right… he don’t like you… any more than you like him. He’s at Six Point Cabin,”

Bill grumbled in disappointment, retracting the tongs and leaned back. Arthur traded a look with Dutch as Kieran continued.

“I-I’ll take you there. I don’t like him. I mean, I like him even less than I like you,” He looked nervously at Dutch. “No offense,”

Dutch laughed. “None taken,”

“Okay then, partner,” Arthur unsheathed the hunting knife from his belt, cutting the bindings on Kieran’s wrists. “Why don’t you take a few of us up there… right now,”

Kieran immediately pulled his pants back up, practically squirming under the men’s gazes. The boy looked at a point behind Arthur, making him turn around and catching the amused look on Robin’s face as she approached. Arthur held back a tease when he saw Kieran’s face heat up like a flame.

“I’m coming with,”

Bill looked at her as if she just sprouted wings and had started to fly. “Hell no, lady, this ain’t your business,”

“Actually, it is,” She had that sturdiness in her voice again that demanded respect from those around her, or at least, demanded attention. Bill didn’t respect anyone, and he certainly wouldn’t bat an eye at Robin.

Dutch probably already knew Arthur’s stance on the situation, and when Arthur looked at him, the older man sighed. “Can you shoot, Miss Rivera?”

“And some,” It wasn’t in a boasting way, but a statement. Arthur had no doubt in his mind she could handle a pistol — she’d gotten this far — but he now began to wonder whether that anger within her was something else; whether it was bad blood or bloodlust.

Bill didn’t hide his displeasure. “Damn woman’s gonna get us killed,”

“I got this, Dutch,” Arthur said, getting a nod from the man. “Should be fun,” He clasped a hand on Kieran’s shoulder, dragging the man forward. “Alright you, come on, let’s go,”

He heard Bill groan behind him, but chose to ignore it, as did Robin, who followed closely. Arthur could feel her watching him sharply, her gaze almost a physical sensation. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea bringing her along. While he didn’t doubt her capabilities, he  _ did _ doubt Bill’s ability to not be an asshole. She’d been willing to beat up the Reverend, and Arthur could tell she was already itching to beat up Bill; it  _ would _ be entertaining, but now wasn’t the time.

“Let’s both hope you ain’t trying to trick us, O’Driscoll,” Arthur taunted, urging Kieran into the direction of the horses.

Arthur knew the response — it was like clockwork. “I ain’t no O’Driscoll,”

“He can ride with me,” Robin called from a ways to his right, moving towards her Turkoman eagerly.

Arthur nodded at her, shoving Kieran a bit harder than necessary in Robin’s direction. “Go on, listen to the lady,”

Maybe Kieran would feel most compelled to talk if he wasn’t being scared shitless by two grizzled outlaws. Perhaps Robin’s natural kindliness would be reassuring, but then Arthur remembered that Robin hated O’Driscolls with a fervent passion. She wasn’t showing it now, hiding the anger incredibly well, and Kieran didn’t seem as reluctant to hop behind Robin onto the saddle. She nudged the Turkoman in Arthur’s direction, who mounted his own horse quickly.

“Let’s go, Bill,” He called. “We got a social call needs making.”


	3. Horseshoe Overlook [3] | Paying A Social Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur, Bill, and Robin (also "Not an O'Driscoll") pay a social call; Robin is a good shot.

“Where we headin’?” Arthur asked, watching with a keen gaze as Kieran hauled himself into the saddle behind Robin. He settled on gripping to the edges of the leather, trying not to touch the fabric of Robin’s flannel and to put some space between them. He was blushing still, embarrassed at most likely sitting too close to the woman who had  _ definitely _ seen his balls about to get burnt off.

“Up into the hills behind Valentine,” The boy responded, voice a tad bit steadier, although heavy with anxiety at the whole situation. “I’ll show you,”

Arthur met Robin's steeled gaze. “Lead the way,”

She nudged her horse forward, following the pathway out of Horseshoe Overlook while Bill and Arthur fell in behind her. Bill mounted Brown Jack, seemingly dismissing Robin’s presence in favor of a potential raid on the hideout of an enemy gang. If there was one thing that got Bill excited more than crisping a man’s balls off, it was a shootout, and the promise of one was pretty secure.

“Robin,” Arthur called, catching the woman’s attention. “If that little rattlesnake causes any trouble… kill him,” When getting a stern nod in response, Kieran suddenly didn’t look as relieved to be riding with a woman, possibly contemplating his chances on the back of Brown Jack’s saddle instead. “We’re gonna pay your buddies our respects,”

“I’m taking you to them,” Kieran said from Robin’s saddle, twisting slightly to face Arthur. But upon realizing that he would need to grip onto Robin to prevent himself from falling off, he decided against it. “Look, I-I’ll give you more directions when we’re close, but if I know where we are, it’s up past Valentine,”

“Alright, I’ll lead,” Robin responded, scoffing in exasperation when Kieran wobbled slightly in the saddle. She gripped his wrist in her hand and placed it around her waist, voice irritated when she spoke. “And for God’s sake just hold onto me,”

“O-Okay, miss,”

Arthur kept his laughter to himself when Kieran’s face went so red he half expected the boy’s face to explode. Robin and him traded an amused look before she urged the Turkoman into a faster trot, the two men behind her doing the same.

“Morgan,” Bill said from Arthur’s right. “You got throwing knives in your saddlebag,” Arthur eyed him curiously, resulting in the man giving out an annoyed groan. “Dutch said you might… I was asked to give them, and I’m doing you the further courtesy of telling you about it,”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Next time you wanna give me something, how about you give it to me? ‘Stead of hidin’ it somewhere, hoping the opportunity comes up to mention it?”

“Last goddamn favor I do you,”

Kieran tapped Robin on the shoulder, who nudged the boy’s side to let him know they weren’t quite  _ close _ enough for friendly shoulder-tapping. “Hey… hey… I-If I got my bearings, it’s over here,” He leaned back slightly to look around the area, which had blossomed out from thin forest into the dusty plains of the Heartlands. “Yeah… I know this country, take this track up through the rocks,”

Arthur sent a glance towards Robin, taking in the pressed line of her lips and the sharp color of resolution in her eyes. “How you holdin’ up, Miss Rivera?”

“ _ Robin _ ,” She snapped, not in an irked way but a reminding one. “I’m fine,”

“You better be if you’re gonna be riding with us,” Bill tossed her way, and Arthur didn’t need to see Robin’s face to know she had rolled her eyes; Bill had a tendency to spark that reaction in people.

“Quite  _ gentlemanly _ to be worrying about me,  _ Bill _ , but I can take care of myself just fine,” She snapped back with a heavy layer of sarcasm coating her words.

Bill scoffed but didn’t complain any further. They rounded a pale collection of giant rocks, deer scattering upon hearing the sound of the horses’ hooves. The sight of a spruce-covered tree line came into view, a railroad running alongside it. The weather was pleasant, the sun’s rays a comfortable warmth and a refreshing change from those bone-numbing mountains. He contemplated taking his jacket off but figured he didn’t want to get too comfortable, not with what was undoubtedly approaching; he still had to keep up that big, bad cowboy character for Kieran, after all.

“Now we go left… road’ll take us up and around,” Kieran directed, leading the horses alongside the tracks at the edge of the forest. They continued that way for a while, nothing but the sound of horses’ hooves on packed ground, before he gestured a point past Robin’s head. “Those are the hills. Head for ‘em,”

They continued along the road, wrapping around hills and soon breaking away from the railroad tracks. Kieran was watching their surroundings, taking them in, most likely relieved to be moving for once. He’d been tied up and tossed in one of their wagons for over a week, and as soon as his feet had touched solid ground, he was thrown against a tree and tied to it. Although he hadn’t spent much time attached to the tree, but two days of standing rigid and arms bound in a way that hadn’t allowed him to sit down properly, Arthur figured anything was better than that right about now.

“D-did you say your name was Rivera?” Kieran questioned with a cautious voice.

“Yep,” Robin replied tensely.

It didn’t deter him, even though there had been a hint of warning in Robin’s voice. “There was a m-man, kinda looked like you—“

“He’s my brother,” She sounded disappointed saying it, almost ashamed, but it was gone before Arthur had time to acknowledge it, replaced with an edged defensiveness. “You two friends?”

“No!” Kieran answered quickly and a bit too eagerly. “N-no, not at all, I barely saw the man. He weren’t around much, but I saw him with Colm couple’a times… weren’t very, um,  _ pleasant… _ ”

They rounded a group of abandoned cabins and Arthur caught a tendril of smoke rising above the trees. “We’re almost on ‘em. Now… who knows if this son of a bitch we got with us is talkin’ true…” He turned and glanced at Bill, who was watching him eagerly. “But if what he says is, and Colm O’Driscoll’s here, we can end years of fightin’. Here and now,”

Robin yanked her horse to a near-stop when Kieran suddenly spoke. “Okay, now-now cut left up here. W-we go down the hill, into the forest…”

Arthur ignored the way his brain started contemplating ways things could go wrong — no one could be here, or maybe Kieran could be leading them right to a trap, who knows — and focused on the  _ actual _ matter at hand. “Alright here’s the plan, you two: were going in quiet, takin’ them out as we find ‘em, tryin’  _ not _ to set things off,” He couldn’t help himself sending a look at Bill, who pointedly ignored him. “But if we do… we move quick and hard. We settle this like we know how. Okay?”

“Sounds good,”

“With you, Morgan,”

With reassurances from Robin and Bill, Arthur readied himself as the horses rounded on a flattened piece of grass amongst the thickening trees. Kieran directed a hand at a subtle dirt pathway hidden in the grass. “Through the trees here,”

They followed the path for a short ways, Robin leaning and pulling her holster from her saddlebag and wrapping it around her waist, Kieran eyeing the revolver now securely on her hip warily. His voice sounded worried when he spoke, but then again, the kid had proven to  _ always _ sound like he was about to shit his pants in terror. “Hey, we’re real close. I’d leave your horses the other side of this clearing…”

They settled the horses in a thicket of brush, Arthur and Bill grabbing guns from their bags and dismounting. Arthur settled on his repeater, unsure of the range that might lie between him and any opponents. He found the throwing knives Bill had stashed away, tucking those away into his coat and shushing Bill when the man opened his mouth to remark on them. 

Kieran dismounted first, awkwardly offering Robin an arm, the action forcing Arthur to suppress a laugh; Robin accepted it anyway, giving Kieran an amused look that subsequently made the man redden slightly. She slid a rifle from the side of her horse, tucking the strap between her shoulders and following Arthur and Bill when they lowered themselves into a crouch.

“Follow me, alright? It ain’t far,” Kieran said in a hushed voice, positioning himself in front of the group. Arthur kept a close eye on the distance between them just in case the man got the stupid idea to run. Must’ve been obvious because Kieran said to him, “I ain’t gonna shop you now, come on. It’d be suicide,”

“You’ll die, boy. But you’ll lose your balls first,” Bill murmured menacingly.

It was quiet enough that Arthur almost missed Kieran’s horrified, “Jesus Christ,”

They crept up to an overlook, a group of hardly-standing cabins clustered amongst towering spruce trees. The group deposited themselves along it, Arthur taking in the area below them with a careful eye. There was one main cabin, a collection of tents, and a few wagons dotted between them. There were plenty of trees to hide their movements, but hopefully they wouldn’t have to use them as cover in the case of a shootout. The day wasn’t declining into a night yet, the sun still bright and revealing — it would make stealth difficult, but a shootout easier.

Kieran pointed at the buildings in front of them, finger aimed at the largest. “The cabin’s in the clearing down there. There’ll be a  _ bunch _ of fellers hiding out there, too.”

“Are these fellers armed?” Arthur asked, even though he was pretty certain of the answer already.

“Armed,” Kieran replied. “ _ Drunk _ . Wary of strangers. Yep,”

“And Colm O’Driscoll?”

“Oh, he’ll be holed up in his cabin. Be passed out, boozed blind, likely as not,”

“Over there,” Bill pointed at an O’Driscoll, grizzled and as drunk as Kieran had said. “Someone’s coming,”

The man had a suffocatingly Irish accent, and Arthur found himself wondering about Sean for a moment. “So uh, who’s gonna tell him we ain’t got nothing for the pot?”

They were getting close, a bit too close. Robin dragged Kieran from his crouch and onto his rear, pinning him down with a leg wrapped around his abdomen and her gun pressed into his temple. Kieran gasped but any sound was cut off when Robin pressed a hand to his mouth, throwing his hands up in a placating panic and something of a surrender, looking as if his life was flashing before his eyes; maybe it was, but a bullet to the brain was a hell of a lot nicer than a pair of burning tongs to your balls.

The trio of O’Driscolls bantered for a moment before one of them excused himself to piss, lagging behind while the others strolled forward. It looked for a moment like he was going to be alone, exposed and easy to pick off, but the others halted and insisted on waiting. Yet a distance had formed between the three, the one taking a piss separate from the two standing side by side.

Arthur brought a finger to his lips, shushing Robin and a trembling Kieran. Bill quietly asked, “What’re we doin’ about the pisser, Morgan? One by the tree?”

While Arthur trusted Bill to keep his cool, the man wasn’t exactly built for stealth — it wasn’t his forte, anyways. “I’m going to deal with this first feller,”

Arthur carefully crept forward, slowly as to not make a fool of himself and fall down the slope. He eased himself forward, stepping deptly around twigs and branches that would slice through the quiet if broken. Slipping a throwing knife from the inside of his jacket, he felt the blade between his fingers, measuring its weight as he lifted it behind his head. It flew fast and true, embedding itself into the man’s neck soundlessly, who felt to the ground in a lifeless heap.

Bill quietly joined Arthur, and he caught the quiet sound of Robin threatening Kieran to stay up — the threat was awfully colorful, creative in the way people got when speaking to someone they harbored a great hatred towards; perhaps not Kieran personally, but the “O’Driscoll” still tied to his name. She noiselessly moved onto Arthur’s left, waiting direction.

“What’s the plan?” Bill whispered, close enough that no one but Arthur or Robin could hear.

“Keep back where they won’t hear us… when I move, you move,” Bill murmured in understanding as Arthur withdrew another throwing knife, the other man doing the same. He spared a look at Robin, who was carefully watching each movement of the O’Driscolls in front of them, searching for any sigh of detection. She was doing alarmingly well, and Arthur determined that she was experienced — in some way — with what they were doing.

Arthur positioned himself to get a clear shot at the left O’Driscoll while Bill leaned to throw his knife at the right. Arthur threw the blade and it settled firmly into the back of the man’s head, Bill’s landing fatally into the other’s neck. Both collapsed to the ground like puppets with their strings cut.

“I left our friend up top,” Robin said, creeping forward alongside Arthur, stepping over the bodies like they were nothing more than some pebbles on the ground. “He won’t be going anywhere,”

“Good,” Arthur got as close as they could without alerting anyone; they didn’t have the cover of night to hide them. He met Robin’s gaze, who was waiting for their move. He nodded at the O’Driscoll sitting hunched-over on a giant dead log. “You got him?”

“Absolutely,” Arthur chuckled at the confidence in her voice, watching as she slipped a knife from a sheath around her thigh. She held it in a fist as she crept forward until she were mere inches away from the man. She plunged the knife into the man’s chest, wrapping an arm around his neck and dragging him off the log and to the ground, where she slid the blade across his jugular… just in case. She ducked behind the log, which was thick enough that she could comfortably hide her form from view. The camp showed no signs of detection, even though they’d just lost four of their own.

“How we doing this?” Bill spoke softly from somewhere to his right, and Arthur wondered which direction they should take things. He couldn’t tell exactly how many were left, but there were clearly more than the three of them to handle with ease; they had to be careful — go about things right. If Colm really were here, a firefight might not be the right route to take. But it would be quicker…

He decided against it. “We do this quietly. Bill, take the right, Robin, with me,” She nodded, following alongside the log as Arthur made his way to the left, throwing knife in hand. He tossed one her way when they had closed some distance between them — hilt-first, of course, he wasn’t dumb — and she fell behind him as he took the lead.

The camp was well populated, O’Driscolls scattered across the tents and wagons haphazardly. They clumped inconveniently in the center, nursing beers and smoking, tossing back what narrowed down to essentially half-assed insults fueled by drunken confidence. The boy hasn’t been lying; they were most certainly drunk — and stupid enough not to put enough men on watch. It would be impossible to eliminate them all through stealth, but Arthur knew they could pick off enough of them without alerting the others and make the inevitable gunfight a hell of a lot easier.

There was an O’Driscoll that might’ve been positioned to watch the perimeter, but judging by the slump in his posture and the heavy breathing, the man had fallen asleep standing up. His absence wouldn’t be noticed, and Arthur efficiently landed a knife into the man’s head, who collapsed in a boneless heap atop the rifle held loosely in his hands. He couldn’t see Bill, but judging by the stability in the air, any of his antics hadn’t been discovered. Good. They only needed to do this a tad bit longer.

A pair of O’Driscolls were separate from the large collection in the center area, passing a bottle of whiskey between each other, words slurred beneath thick Irish accents. Moving forward, using the side of a wagon as cover, Arthur got as close to the two as he dared. Robin was using the trees to hide herself, crouched low and still as she held the throwing knife at the ready. She met his gaze, and Arthur held up his hand in her view, beginning a countdown. Once his fingers closed around a fist, they both lose their knives, each landing at fatal points in the O’Driscolls’ bodies. It was a fluid, perhaps flawless execution, and Arthur found it easier to work with Robin — who hadn’t even been in his company for more than a day — than with some of the other gang members, who’d been by his side for years. He tried not to question how she was so good at killing, but that was a discussion for another time; maybe he didn’t even want an answer.

The infiltration was going well, too well, Arthur caught himself thinking. He leaned around the wagon carefully, taking in the remaining gang members. Their numbers were dwindling, but they had been too drunk to realize they were being picked off like injured cattle by a pack of famished wolves. He spotted a glimpse of Bill’s leather coat when he launched a knife at a stray O’Driscoll, and Arthur watched their entire plan detonate itself when the knife embedded itself in the wall the O’Driscoll was leaning against, inches away from his face.

Arthur knew it wasn’t going to stay smooth for much longer, but he’d at least wanted to prepare himself before it all went to shit.

“Men at the perimeter!” Someone shouted, and the firefight began.

Robin tossed herself behind a thick tree as soon as the first bullet went flying, swinging the rifle from her shoulders and into her hands. She held it with an experienced touch, lifting it to her eye as she gazed down the sights, landing a headshot on an O’Driscoll and sending him spiraling into the ground; they’d been too focused on Bill’s “interruption” to realize that there were two others across the camp. Now aware that they had more than one opponent on their hands, it was a fight for cover as the O’Driscolls scattered like flies, ducking behind each and every solid surface as the gunshots rang out in a vicious pandemonium.

There was a significant dent in their numbers but more than enough to prove troublesome. But their drunkenness was clear as some of the men peeked out from cover with half their bodies exposed, making them easy targets for Arthur’s repeater. There was something about shooting that came naturally to Arthur. Maybe it was because of his skill with his hands or his ability to stay calm under pressure, but what really made it easy was his capacity to focus. It was as if the world around him faded away, slowed to a standstill, nothing but the barrel of his gun and the target across from him in his sight. It was probably one of the few things Arthur actually prided in himself.

It were the situations like this that made him thankful he had taken to shooting as easily as he had. They were outnumbered but Arthur could safely say that they had this fight settled before it began. He didn’t allow himself to get cocky, even though victory was pretty obvious; just because you won the gunfight doesn’t mean you won’t get shot in the process. 

Bill whooped from somewhere across the camp, shouting tantalizing threats like he did whenever he got swept away amidst bullets. He seemed to have forgotten that he’d been the reason everything had gone to shit, but then again, he relished in the uncertainty of battle — stealth was too predictable for a man like Bill. Arthur transitioned between cover, sprinting to a collection of crates when an opening presented itself, placing himself closer to his targets. He switched to his revolver when he found his repeater unsuited for the range, fluidly twisting the gun in his hands and landing a shot on an O’Driscoll who hadn’t quite tucked his head out of view. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, narrowing his view even further.

He managed to catch Robin’s shout through the gunfire. “Guess that snake wasn't lying!”

No, no he had not. By no means did it make Kieran trustworthy, but it had started to make his persistent  _ I ain’t an O’Driscoll’s  _ more reasonable. He might still be up on the ledge, or maybe he had been shot fighting for his buddies, who knew — It didn’t really matter.

“Fellers coming back to camp — north!” Bill shouted, drawing their attention to the newest members of the parlay, who were running through the trees with an assortment of firearms. It was a good thing they’d taken out as many as they did undetected, or else their chances might’ve been worrying.

“I got the ones in the back!” Robin called from somewhere behind him, beginning to pick off the ones running through the trees. Her rifle was powerful, suited for long range, and it didn’t take any more than one shot to down them. The ones approaching must not have been drinking because their shots landed far too close for comfort, far too many times. But Robin’s cover made it much easier to focus on the ones getting too close, and Arthur was free to pick off the remaining members hiding in the camp.

It didn’t last much longer, O’Driscolls dropping left and right and populating the forest floor like bloodied branches — Colm multiplied those bastards like rabbits, it seemed. Instead of rushing forward they began to rush backwards, abandoning the now foolish notion of defending camp in favor of saving their own hides.

“Cowards are running!” Bill sounded annoyed, irked that the fight had ended so anticlimactically.

Arthur lowered his pistol but kept it in his hands. “Leave ‘em. Colm’s still here,”

Robin jogged from her spot in the trees, shouldering her rifle. There was some blood on her neck but it clearly wasn’t hers. “Said he’d be in the cabin,”

Arthur nodded. “I’ll check. You two look out here,”

Bill began to rummage through the pockets of the dead gang members, turning out coats and grabbing anything that looked even slightly valuable or useful. Robin went about it a more methodical way, examining the men’s faces, undoubtedly looking for anyone who might’ve looked like her brother. Going off of what Kieran said alone, it appeared the man didn’t visit the O’Driscolls — or at least, Colm — very often, but the chance he was here at this time was still there.

The cabin was quiet, not a sound of activity of any kind as Arthur approached. He kept his weapon ready, just in case. That’s when the door flew open, slamming into him hard as a man barreled out, a double-barrel shotgun raised and laughing as he aimed it at Arthur’s head. Spots danced across his vision and he struggled to focus on the man for a moment, and he didn’t have a moment.

A gunshot cracked through the air, and Arthur watched as red blossomed across the O’Driscoll’s abdomen, peppering the wood of the cabin’s exterior behind him. He let out a gurgled groan, clutched at the wound in his stomach and collapsing, his shotgun clattering to the ground as he let out a final few blood-filled breaths.

Arthur laid there for a moment as Kieran’s boots entered his vision. “You alright?”

_ Where the hell did he get the gun? _ “Sure, thank you…” He grumbled out of obligation alone, the boy scattering away in the direction of Robin and Bill. He recollected the air that had been swept out of his lungs and pushed himself to his feet.

The cabin was empty.

“Colm O’Driscoll…” Arthur felt the anger bubbling inside of him, so heavy it made his chest clench. “He ain’t here.  _ You set us up _ ,” it was mumbled under his breath, but he threw himself around and started towards Kieran, who was holstering — where the hell did the  _ holster _ come from? — his found revolver on his waist. “Come here!”

“W-what?”

“You set us up,”

“No, I didn’t,”

Arthur raised his revolver at Kieran’s head, flinched and wilted into himself. “You did. Colm O’Driscoll ain’t here!”

“He was here, I swear!” He was screaming now, frantic and desperate, looking awfully like a man who’d screwed another over. “If I was setting you up… I-I wouldn’t have saved your life!”

Bill walked towards him, amusement on his face, finding the situation awfully entertaining, it seemed. “It’s a good point, Arthur,”

Robin wasn’t far behind him, and he caught her nodding in agreement, albeit with some reluctance. He sighed, shaking his head for a moment, before lowering his gun and returning it to its holster. “Alright then, go on, get outta here,”

“Eh?”

Jesus, with each passing second Arthur was finding it harder and harder not to shoot the damn kid. “I won't kill ya,”

“I didn’t set you up,” What was this, the new  _ I ain’t an O’Driscoll _ ? Kieran sounded baffled and his words were growing more and more unsteady.

Arthur took a step towards him. “Get lost,”

“Get lost?”

He lurched forward and gathered a corner of Kieran’s shirt, dragging him around and throwing him forward. “I’m lettin’ you run away…” He waved a hand at the empty forest, obviously needing to make things  _ very clear _ for the boy. “Now go on, get outta here,”

His reaction was… unexpected.

“That’s as good as killing me!” Kieran was angry now, a stark contrast for the trembling, smelling young man tethered to a tree, begging for his balls not to be cut off. “Out there… without you… Colm O’Driscoll is gonna lose his mind about this,”

Arthur scoffed. “So?”

“So, I’m one of you now,”

Arthur sighed heavily, running a hand down his face, wishing for the damn thing to just be  _ over _ . “Give me a break…” He aimed a finger at the boy, moving towards him as his scrambled back. “Alright then, but I’m warnin’ you,”

Kieran held up his hands. “Oh, I know,”

“Come on, let’s get to camp,” He said, making sure to meet Robin’s gaze to assure her that yes, he was including her in that “let’s.”

“So you got the cash, then?”

He was about to throw a hand Kieran’s way once he heard his voice, but once he understood the words, he halted himself. Instead, he opted to ask suspiciously, “What cash?”

“Yeah, there’s usually some cash…” His eyes lit up, and he whirled around and started towards the cabin. “In the chimney!”

_Hell no._ “I’ll check it.” Arthur turned and faced Bill. “You and Kieran head on back to camp, me and Robin’ll finish up here. Oh, and Bill?” Bill hadn’t looked particularly pleased to be riding back to camp with Kieran, but he didn’t outwardly protest. “You tell Dutch, ol’ Kieran ain’t worth killin’... _just_ _yet_ ,”

“Yeah, right you are.” Bill replied, grabbing Kieran by the shoulder and urging him forward. The boy looked like he was going to pass out, definitely thinking back to only a couple hours ago, when the man he now had to share a saddle with was holding a hot pair of tongs to his balls. Maybe Bill will sort him straight a bit more, just as an extra precaution, even though Arthur had — reluctantly — determined Kieran was of no harm.

Arthur nodded his head at the cabin when he met Robin’s gaze, who approached him with an unreadable expression on her face. It became even harder to read when they entered the stuffy, dark interior, which looked like a herd of horses had come barreling through. There were bottles stacked on the countertop, stacked on the table, lying scattered around the ground; O’Driscolls really couldn’t help themselves to drink, could they? Other various unidentifiable, useless things scattered the area; a couple playing cards with no deck in sight, a torn cigarette case, a wrapper to some kind of candy. There were a couple bunks in the corner flanking the two sides of the fireplace, where a giant six-point buck skull was pinned above it. Below was a poorly managed shotgun, a double barrel, appearing perfectly functional, although it was covered in dust and dirt and made Arthur’s hands feel greasy after touching it.

Robin was rummaging through the area, examining the cards on the table, eyes distant. He stared at her for a second to see if she’d notice, but she was in a different world, lost amongst her thoughts. “You alright?” He found himself asking.

She whipped her head up, holding back a flinch at being retracted from her thoughts so abruptly. She dodged the question. “Didn’t see my brother,”

“Unfortunately?” He made it sound like a question, just to make sure her stance regarding her brother was crystal clear. But she didn’t answer right away, contemplating his words for a second.

“He needs a bullet,” She said simply. “Just… kind of wanna be the one to put it in him,”

Arthur nodded. The curious part of him wanted to know what had happened to garner such hatred, but the reasonable side of him insisted it wasn’t his business; he decided on being reasonable, and changed the conversation’s direction. “You handle a rifle well,”

“Had some practice,”

Arthur lowered himself into a crouch, peering up into the blackened darkness of the chimney. He retracted himself and bent an arm up, feeling the edge of the inner bricks with careful fingers, searching for any notch or unevenness. He fingers hooked on a softness unlike the charred edges of the brick, and he lifted it into his hand, pulling out a bundle of cash. “Least you got somethin’ tucked away,”

He tucked it away into his saddle, Robin watching with mild interest, but he wasn’t quite ready to finish talking with her. “Who taught you? Your father?”

“No, my brother,” When Arthur gave her a look of unfiltered surprise, she chuckled, waving a dismissing hand. “My other one — he’s gone now,”

“Well, ah, I’m sorry,”

“It was forever ago,” She relaxed her hands on the holster around her waist, eyeing Arthur curiously. “Just spit it out, Mister Morgan,”

With her explicit permission, he asked, “Didn’t know you were a killer,” He’d said it with a bluntness that made his voice sound rather mean, but it just sometimes… came out like that.

It didn’t phase her, but she leaned back on her heels, rocking on her feet for a second before she spoke. “I didn’t stay in daddy’s office for  _ all _ my thirty-two years, Mister Morgan. Only spent about half of that with him. And I wasn’t exactly raised in a safe household to begin with — saw people die all the time,”

“Killin’ people is different,” Arthur quickly remedies himself. “I ain’t meanin’ it in a…  _ bad _ way, I’m—“

“Just curious?” She smirked, Arthur feeling a bit embarrassed at his social skills. The gang were  _ different _ than most people; they could be talked to like shit and still know you were being friendly, other people, not so much… “My family got into some bad things once my mother died and we left the Philippines. You know my father’s deal but my brothers, they went about things like you lot do,”

“Like outlaws?”

“Yeah,” Robin said, following Arthur as he led the way out the cabin, the darkness and dusty-clogged air making it hard to hold a conversation. “Until Rodrigo went nuts — found out he  _ very much _ liked to kill people,”

Arthur hummed in surprise. “Wow,”

She chuckled, awfully casual for such a heavy conversation. “It’s much easier to make money if you kill anyone who gets in your way,”

It was true; Arthur knew it too well. He knew how easy some robberies would’ve been if he’d just killed the homeowner just to not have to worry about them, or when someone unexpected interrupted a con because they weren’t where they should’ve been. Killing people — no,  _ removing _ them — made things in this life much easier. It was a fact, one Arthur was constantly reminded of, but he never listened to it. As much as he did it, he didn’t quite like killing, certainly not in the way Robin’s brother appeared to. He couldn’t imagine killing people out of enjoyment — only under very, very specific circumstances could he be pleased by ending a man’s life — let alone seeking out others to do so. There was something alarmingly morbid about killing for fun; Arthur wouldn’t even consider killing animals just to do it. Then again, animals were a hell of a lot more innocent than people…

Robin sighed, looking at the bodies scattered across the clearing in various states of postmortem. If it bothered her, she didn’t outwardly show it, but he could see the considering look in her eyes. “Sorry Colm weren’t here,”

It was such a drastic twist in the morbid direction their conversation had been heading, and it almost made him laugh. “Sorry your brother weren’t, either,”

“Yeah,” She pulled her eyes away from the corpses, meeting Arthur’s gaze, and he was glad to see that familiar warmth in them — especially after all the bloodshed. “I’m gonna be around Valentine for a while. He went through there recently, so… it’s the only lead I got,”

Arthur nodded, hesitating for a second before she spoke. “Well, you’re always welcome back at camp, if it pleases you,”

“That’s…” She chuckled. “Rather kind of you, but I won’t disturb you all,”

“Not at all,” Arthur insisted, trying not to sound too eager. Having Robin around would be a giant help, What with her medical expertise and her way around a rifle. They’d lost folks, taking a dent in their numbers, and while it felt kind of like a replacement, Robin would make a fine member of the Van der Linde Gang. He might be a bit biased, still feeling infinitely indebted to her after what she’d done to save his life, but he figured if Kieran could stay, Robin would be welcomed much more enthusiastically. Anyways, if there was one thing Dutch liked to keep people around for, it was firepower — and potential.

She gnawed on her lip in an obvious thinking expression, her features scrunched as she thought. Arthur wondered if he had a thinking face; figured it would probably look about as angry as any other face he made. “I’ll consider it, if you’re sure it won’t cause trouble? My being there, that is,”

She had picked up on the camp’s tension — it was hard not to — and her doubts became clear. The camp, while she hadn’t interacted with anyone other than a couple of them, had universally and unconsciously dissuaded newcomers from staying long. Blackwater was fresh on their minds and Robin’s sudden entrance into camp hadn’t come at a more inconvenient time. A couple days of settling back in and Arthur was relatively certain that she’d be welcomed like an old friend; the women would be happy to have another one of their own around, the men to a more-than-capable gun at hand, and both probably reassured by the access to an actual doctor — their line of work didn’t shy away from injury and bloodshed, that’s for sure.

“Naw, a new face such as yours would be welcomed,” He replied, but the uncertainty in her eyes was still as strong as ever.

“You’re sure?”

He chuckled. “All I’m sayin’ is if you’re ever inclined to visit, you’re welcome to do so,”  _ I ain’t asking you to join the gang _ . He kind of  _ was _ , but that decision remained exclusive to Dutch and perhaps Hosea. Arthur could throw his hat into the ring, but he did not have the final say. So, no, he wasn’t  _ initiating _ her into the gang, merely… showing her she could if she wanted to?

She shook her head, an amused expression on her face. “Alright, Mister Morgan, but I’ve gotta head back into town for a bit,”

“Alright,” Arthur gave her a small smile, tilting his hat in a departing gesture. “Know where I’ll be,”


	4. Horseshoe Overlook [4] | Pouring Forth Oil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time goes by; Arthur participates in a train robbery.

Arthur didn’t see Robin again for almost two weeks.

In that time, however, a lot of things happened.

They’d gotten Sean back, infiltrating Blackwater and snatching him out from the law before they could hang him. And while the foolish Irish bastard drained Arthur’s energy like a leech would his blood, it was…  _ nice _ to have him back. His return sparked a wave of rejuvenation across the camp, Dutch using the man’s return as a means for celebration that served to brighten the gang’s spirits. Arthur had indulged in the celebration, perhaps getting a bit too drunk and waking up the following morning with a heavy ache behind his eyes. But the experience had helped shift focus away from the suffocating gloom Blackwater’s ordeal had ignited, and it was evident.

Hosea and Arthur had gone hunting the day after, tracking down a monster of a bear and nearly getting maimed by it. Arthur had used the opportunity to help reconnect with Hosea after circumstances had kept them both busy, and subsequently, he’d asked about Robin. 

Hosea had expressed his favorable opinion towards her, both from a personal and practical standpoint; she had proven to be honorable, maybe more so than others in the gang, and had shown to be rather useful. Her participation in the attack on Six Point Cabin had struck favorably with Dutch, who always found a capable gun to be of significant value. Hosea had emphasized the importance of having an actual — although not certified, but that didn’t mean anything — doctor in the gang. While he and Grimshaw (perhaps Swanson whenever he was sober enough to be reliable) were capable, they didn’t have the advanced training Robin had, and Hosea had been hesitant to admit that he probably wouldn’t have been successful at removing the glass from Arthur’s neck; delicate, more complex injuries such as that were outside of his capacity, and it had been sheer luck that such injuries hadn’t occurred previously.

But there was the matter of her past, which had proven to be contentious. Arthur had told Hosea about her brother — Rodrigo — and what kind of man he had been, his taste for death and his lack of humanity. Arthur didn’t express it, but there was a lingering uncertainty in his mind; Robin had proven to be heartless when she needed to be, but did she have that bloodlust inside her, too? While Hosea didn’t seem too concerned with Robin’s past, as there were plenty of members in the gang who had left behind years of unfavorable circumstances and countless immoral decisions — who had families with their own demons — he had been concerned about Dutch’s perspective on it. Rodrigo had, even if it appeared to be minimal, interacted directly with Colm, and Dutch wasn’t very forthcoming when it came to that man. Dutch insisted that he was a very open-minded, reasonable individual, but all that vanished whenever Colm was involved; maybe he couldn’t see past the fact that Robin herself had no relationship with Colm, even if her brother did.

Still, Hosea put a good word in for her. And so, when Arthur returned to camp after separating from Hosea to tend to his own business — putting down that scarred bastard of a grizzly — Dutch had come to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe, Robin would make a good member within the ranks.

Arthur had also, reluctantly, gone to break Micah out of jail.

Yeah, Arthur hated Micah with a passion, and while the man was a bloodthirsty killer with a giant list of iniquitous crimes under his belt, he was still “part of the gang.” It had been easy getting him out of the jail — all he had to do was hook a pulley to the bars of the decaying brick building, letting the mechanism do the rest of the work — but Micah had decided to ignite the entire ordeal into a giant shitshow. It ended up in a town-wide shootout in Strawberry, not because of the jailbreak itself, but because Micah needed to pay a  _ goddamn social call _ over a pair of  _ goddamn guns _ . They could’ve gotten out with no lives lost, maybe a couple townsfolk injured and some property damage, but the psychopath had mowed down anyone who even stood in the vicinity to get a pair of pistols. Arthur was seething by the time they got out, chest heavy with the men he’d had to shoot. Micah had given him an off-hand holster as thanks, but it did nothing to settle the unsteadiness within him, and managed to stroke his anger further. Luckily the man had refused to return to camp with him — something about needing to “make it up to Dutch” — and had gotten out of his face before Arthur could throw a fist at it.

Arthur took the following day for himself, desperately needing to decompress, to get away from everyone. He wandered, encountered a foolish photographer named Albert Mason who had no clue how wildlife worked — ended up chasing his bag down from a coyote — and had almost gotten robbed by an overconfident group of men when crossing a bridge. While he ended up unharmed and with all his belongings, the short shootout hadn’t been kind to his Tenessee Walker, who had gotten shot through the neck. It was instant, but heartbreaking. He ended up needing to take one of the robber’s horses, a sturdy Nokota with a blue coat who didn’t seem to give a shit that her owner was lying dead a couple feet away from her. She didn’t protest when Arthur mounted her, especially after he gave her a couple wild carrots he had found during his wandering. He worked with her while he made his way back to camp, nursing the wound of losing a horse who had been nothing but loyal to him, and settled on the name Aegean because of her coat.

Across the days, John had improved at an exponential rate, and he had become more than capable of walking around and doing chores by the time the seventh day passed. While it was clear he was still recovering, going by the notable stiffness in his gait and the unsealed gashes on his face — slowly becoming a scar that would become awfully inconvenient once they updated the wanted posters — John was eager to get back to work; rightly so, he’d had more than enough beauty rest and doting from Abigail for a lifetime. He didn’t waste time finding work, either, coming up with a scheme to force a train to stop with an oil wagon from the not-so-far fields in the middle of Heartlands. Arthur was reluctant to admit that it was a good plan — thought-out, even — but he wouldn’t admit it to John, of course; he was too stubborn. He went and stole the wagon in the peak of nighttime, knocking out a few guards and slipping out of the factory with next to no resistance.

When he’d deposited it at the spot John had indicated, Arthur had returned to camp to rest up, going fishing with Jack in the morning when Abigail had expressed her worry over the boy. He’d encountered the Pinkertons while at the river, far too close to camp and far too quick to catch their trail. The entire experience had confused Jack, serving to make him even more uneasy — Jack felt the effects of Blackwater harder than anyone, even if he didn’t understand exactly what was happening — but with the promise of candy and a new picture book, his four-year-old mind went back to focusing on normal, four-year-old concerns.

Upon returning to camp with a placated Jack and a bubble of anxiousness in his chest, he’d made a beeline to Dutch, whose reaction was far more… subdued than Arthur had been expecting. “I say we do nothing… just yet.” While the man had shown worry, he had immediately receded into defensiveness, and Arthur had been forced to accept Dutch’s response — no matter how baffling it had been. He’d gone searching for Hosea afterwards to let the man know, and had found him sitting at the table across from Sean, and beside him was none other than Robin herself.

It was a weird combination, the three of them, and it became apparent very quickly Sean had interrupted the two. Hosea and Robin were in the midst of an elaborate discussion over a topic that made Sean scrunch his face up in confusion, whereas Hosea was leaned forward with a spark of fascination in his eyes. Robin was talking a mile a minute, her accent heavy as she thought less about her words and more about simply getting them out. She’d acquired a pale green scout jacket and her rifle — still on her shoulder, signally that she’d arrived recent enough that she hadn’t bothered to deposit it somewhere — had a new scope that hadn’t been there at Six Point Cabin. However, she didn’t seem any different, if perhaps more comfortable.

Turns out, Robin was almost as good of a storyteller as Hosea was, and judging by the intrigued look in the master’s eyes himself, she was doing a splendid job. As Arthur approached, the Pinkertons and Mac moved to the side for a moment, her voice reached his ears unhindered by distance and Dutch’s gramophone, which he had started up soon after their conversation.

“...effects of capsaicin—“ 

“The feck ye just say?”

“ _ —capsaicin _ , it’s the stuff that make really hot peppers spicy, makes the liquid  _ feel _ as though it is doing something, when really it’s burning at your insides,”

Hosea hummed in thought for a second, running a hand along his chin before saying, “So, this Allbright fella told folks his cures were so effective they could feel it healing them immediately after consumption?”

“Yes,”

“When in truth, there was an ingredient creating a reaction strong enough to give the  _ idea _ of active healing?” Hosea reiterated (Arthur assumed), raising an eyebrow at Robin as he awaited her reaction.

“Yes!” She scoffed, crossing her arms. “Bastard was worth more than fifty, I tell you, what with what he was doing to people with those ‘cures,’” She spat the last word out with heavy sarcasm. “Sold a load of, um, I don’t know the word in English…”

“Placebos?” Hosea tested, garnering an agreeing smile from Robin.

“Yeah, those!” She turned to face Sean. “He sold a bunch of cures where he told buyers they did one thing, when really they didn’t do anything at all,”

It made the Irishman frown, whether it was out of shared distaste for this “Allbright” fellow or confusion, Arthur couldn’t tell; it was probably a bit of both. He caught sight of Arthur as he approached and shouted a bit louder than necessary, “Eh, Arthur! How’s it goin’?”

“He treatin’ you well, Miss Rivera?” Arthur asked, partially out of genuine concern but also to tease Sean, whose reactions proved to be a constant source of entertainment.

Sean huffed in overeggaeraged offense. “I’ll have ye know, I treat the ladies with the utmost respect, English!”

“Everything alright, Arthur?” Hosea asked, keeping his concern subdued behind the guise of nonchalance, but Arthur had known the man far too long for him to hide it effectively. It also went both ways; Arthur couldn’t disguise his unease entirely under an air of casual confidence.

Arthur gave the man a look he hoped hinted at  _ we’ll talk later _ , and judging by the soft nod, Hosea understood. “Everythin’s fine,” He nodded at Robin, who was watching him curiously. “How’ve you been?”

It was as if he shot a gun and the horses had gone running. She eagerly returned to her story, Hosea sending Arthur an eyebrow that the latter waved off. “I’ve been swell — met this  _ panloloko _ who called himself a ‘miracle worker,’ selling these cure-alls to folk who don’t know any better,”

“What, snake oil?” Arthur asked curiously. He settled himself into the open chair beside Sean, who looked hopelessly lost and trying desperately not to appear so, fiddling with the bottle of beer in his hands. 

It was clear he was suffering  _ severely _ from the boredom that comes along with being recently broken out of jail; he had to lie low for a bit, meaning he’d be stuck in camp for a far too long while the law lost his scent. Sean was suited for the tasks usually asked of those who lingered in camp — chores, in other words — and he had instead opted to get himself comfortably soaked and mettle around in other people’s business. Unfortunately, that business had been something of an intellectual discussion between two who knew far more than Sean could ever comprehend, and the kid was too stubborn to admit defeat so he stayed, hearing but not quite listening.

Robin nodded. “Why’s it such a problem up around these parts?”

Arthur chuckled. “It’s the country; plenty of gullible folk who get injured on the job and can’t afford to take the time to rest — guess that’s why they sell ‘em so cheap,”

“Huh, makes sense,” Robin shrugged. “Anyway, this feller — Benedict Allbright — had a bounty for fifty out on him, so I figured I’d go and grab him, since I was in the area. Found him easy enough, what with the campfire the size of Texas coughing up smoke visible for miles,”

Hosea shook his head, Arthur scoffing. It was rule number one once you got too much heat on you; never light a fire unless you need it, bad. It served as nothing but a giant sign shouting  _ here I am!  _ for any bounty hunter or law officer to follow.

“Dumbass even  _ knew _ about the bounty, asking if I was there to bring him in,” Robin said exasperated, humor lacing her words as she put on a tone of mock desperation. “Told him I was ill, desperate for something —  _ anything _ — that would help, and he went full salesman in seconds,”

“Guess he ain't fit for the criminal lifestyle,” Arthur remarked.

She laughed, a light sound that made Arthur want to do the same; it was alarmingly contagious and if he’d had a bit of drink in him — or a lack of worry still lingering in his chest — Arthur probably would’ve been smacking the table laughing alongside her. “ _ Definitely _ not. Started showing me all these bottles and ointments like he was selling horses. An absolute fool, even stupider than the poor sods who buy his shit in the first place. Got close enough that all I had to do was knock him out and that was that,”

“Arthur!” Dutch’s voice carried through camp, forcing him to turn around in his seat to meet the man’s gaze. He flicked a pair of fingers, gesturing for Arthur to come over. He could feel Hosea’s eyes on him, curious more than anything else, and Arthur excused himself.

Dutch had his thinking face on, one hand fiddling with the cigar between his lips and the other tapping idly on his gun belt. His eyes were drawn in the way they got when his thoughts were getting out of his control. That’s the thing about Dutch; he didn’t worry, he  _ considered _ — he predicted what was going to happen based on what usually happened, he compared the odds going off of how things turned out in the past — it was a giant game of forceful understanding that Arthur could never keep up with.

He looked up as Arthur approached, smirking at the odd mixture of personalities sitting at the table Arthur had just departed. “Quite the collection, those three,”

Arthur chuckled. “Sean ain’t got a chance understandin’ anything about what those two are talkin’ about,” Dutch hummed in agreement before Arthur continued. “But I figure that ain’t why you wanna speak to me?”

“Quite right, son,” Dutch took a long drag from the cigar, the scent of premium tobacco flooding the air. “I want you to take Miss Rivera on this train robbery of John’s,”

Arthur couldn’t resist teasing the man a little bit. “Sure you trust a  _ stranger _ for a job like this?”

Dutch scoffed, picking up on Arthur’s intentions. “I had to make sure she weren’t going to be responsible for our demise, Arthur,” He added with a bit of reluctance. “It is now…  _ clear _ she’s not friends with Colm  _ or _ the law,”

“Thinkin’ we’ll need the extra manpower?” Arthur questioned, eyeing the older man quizzically.

“Wouldn’t hurt for another set of hands for the job,” Dutch admitted, even though it was clear he was holding something back. Whatever it was, Arthur hoped he’d express it to him; Dutch only ever told what was on his mind in his own time — no one, other than the occasional Hosea, could coax out any of Dutch’s dubious thoughts.

Arthur didn’t try to pry, knowing he’d only be rewarded with Dutch getting defensive and perhaps a souring mood, so he dropped it. “When should we head out?”

“Charles left about an hour ago and John oughta be there already, so unless you’ve got some preparations to make…” He waved his cigar in a dismissing way, and Arthur took it as his cue to get moving. It was clear that Dutch was having one of those periods where he needed to be left to his own devices, to be undisturbed for a while in order to straighten out his thoughts. Arthur didn’t see any reason to delay that time, so he departed, making his way over to the table to collect Robin.

Sean had taken over the discussion, going off about his  _ da _ for what had to be at least the  _ hundredth _ time. Robin was listening with an amused expression while Hosea had pulled out a book to devote his time with more “nourishing” pursuits. She met Arthur’s gaze and he flicked his head towards the horses, inciting her to excuse herself from Sean’s tale — he  _ complained _ , of course, but she merely laughed and dismissed him — and made her way over to him.

She repositioned the rifle to a more comfortable place on her shoulder as she walked, eyeing him curiously before asking, “What’s up?”

“Headin’ out for that train robbery John’s got set up,” When she nodded, Hosea most likely being the one to fill her in, Arthur tentatively continued. “Dutch suggested you come with,”

She eyed him inquisitively. “ _ Dutch _ suggested?”

He chuckled as they reached the horses, checking over his Nokota and her reaction to the unfamiliar steeds around her. She’d proven to be a social creature, wandering around and interacting with the other horses. Arthur liked to think he knew more about horses than the average man, judging by how much he enjoyed being in the presence of the animals; horses were unlike people in a lot of ways, and perhaps that was why Arthur was attracted to them like they were a campfire in the midst of a winter forest. Aegean snorted as Arthur approached, nudging her snout towards his satchel, where he had kept a stable supply of horse treats tucked away. She’d trusted him easily, but he still needed to spend some time working with her.

He ran a hand along Aegean’s neck, who neighed appreciatively. “Yeah, you interested?”

Now, while she’d proven on plenty of occasions to be acquainted to killing and violence, and her father’s choices regarding his patients had signaled a lifestyle involving crime. But he’d never explicitly asked if she was actually okay with the kind of crime the gang involved themselves in. And now he was asking her — well, Dutch was practically  _ telling _ her — to come and help them rob an evening train.

She’d said yes, thankfully.

“Can’t say I’ve robbed a train before,” She responded, whistling for her Turkoman, who obediently trotted over your his owner. “But you know what they say — there’s a first time for everything,”

“And you’re…  _ alright _ with it?” He hauled himself into Aegean’s saddle, who shifted eagerly on her hooves, excited to get moving again.

She laughed heartily. “What, worried about my  _ innocence _ , Mister Morgan?”

He shook his head with a smile, relishing in the banter. “Of course not, ma’am, just makin’ sure you’re fine gettin’ your hands dirty,”

“Not bloody?” She queried, pulling herself into the Turkoman’s saddle, the horse inching forward and introducing himself to Aegean, who sniffed curiously at the gelding.

“Hopefully not,” He knew he’d have to beat a few stubborn patrons, sure, but nothing beyond that… if things went according to plan. He had no doubt they would — John and Charles were strict plan-followers — but luck had a nasty way of throwing wrenches into their plans just for the fun of it, especially nowadays. “Should be quick, nice and easy,”

She slid the rifle from her back and into a slot within the saddle, settling in for a ride with a friendly nod. They  _ did _ have some distance to cover, all the way from here to a bit past Emerald Ranch, to the abandoned shack John had told him to deposit the oil wagon. It was the late afternoon, with the sun a couple hours away from sunset. With the ride ahead of them, Arthur reckoned they’d be able to reach the wagon just before nightfall, even at a leisurely pace.

Arthur urges Aegean into a trot, Robin’s Turkoman settling into a similar pace beside him. “Got a bit of a ride,” He said, waving to Karen from her spot on lookout. She shouted something along the lines of  _ don’t cause trouble  _ and he chuckled softly. “Not too long. Gotta head through Emerald Ranch, meet John and Charles a bit past that,”

“How is John?” Robin asked, nudging her horse to match Aegean’s quickening pace. “Good enough to be robbing trains?”

“With the amount of beauty sleep he got, he better be,” He hadn’t meant for it to sound so hostile, but it was an unconscious reaction whenever it came to John, even if it were incredibly unwarranted.

It didn’t go unnoticed by her. “I know it’s not my business, but…”

“Yeah, we had a… fallin’ out a while ago — about a year now,” He replied, making a conscious effort to push back that subconscious anger that always snuck in whenever John was mentioned. They — Arthur, John, the entire goddamn camp — didn’t talk about John’s unceremonious departure from the gang, and he suspected Arthur himself had something to do with it. Arthur had his own reasons not to forgive John, reasons the younger man had no business knowing about, but it had resulted in a repressed contention between them that confused one of them and only served to anger the other.

Arthur had a feeling he needed to finally talk about it, to go about making things right again, and maybe Robin with her understanding demeanor could help out with that. Hosea and Dutch were too biased on the matter, and he couldn’t talk to anyone else about it because — well, he just  _ couldn’t _ . He had a hard time confiding in people, especially those who constantly looked towards him to be strong, impenetrable, unphased by everything. Even Charles, who was probably the only man in camp he could talk honestly to, wouldn’t be able to understand as he hadn’t been there when it happened. Then again, neither had Robin, but…

“John, well, he left us — left a toddler and a wife — for a while,” Arthur let his eyes wander across the Heartlands, taking in the hills of grass and brush, the mountains in the distance, the jagged edges of boulders. “Guess I just… ain’t able to forgive him, yet,”

Robin was quiet for a moment, considering his words. “Does he deserve it? Forgiveness, I mean,”

“Sure, I mean, he’s already gotten it,” Arthur said, the words feeling odd on his tongue. He wasn’t sure how he felt about talking so… openly. They were thoughts usually reserved for his journal, lost to the pages rather than spoken. But he was actually saying them now, for the first time since… who knew how long; maybe he’d never even said them in the first place. “Guess I’m the only one who hasn’t forgotten about it. Just… can’t let go,”

“That ‘forgive and forget’ stuff, well, it’s bullshit,” he looked at her curiously, meeting her friendly gaze. There wasn’t a trace of judgement in her eyes, and it was refreshing, even a bit relieving. “Forgiving someone, it… doesn’t mean you have to pretend what they did, well,  _ didn’t happen _ ,”

“Seems like everyone else has forgotten,” Arthur mumbled, allowing a sliver of that bitterness in.

She laughed softly. “I think that the reason you can’t forgive him is because you don’t wanna let  _ him _ forget,”

God, it was true,  _ too _ true. 

John got let off the hook. People who leave the gang, well, they aren’t supposed to come back. But John wasn’t just a gang member, he was Dutch’s son, just like Arthur was. And maybe he thought back to Mary, how Arthur had considered leaving and how vehemently Dutch had opposed that. If Mary hadn’t… done what she did… Arthur probably would’ve left like the young fool he had been. Dutch would’ve felt betrayed, never to forgive him for abandoning them, and most likely wouldn’t have welcomed him back as easily as he’d welcomed back John.

John had vanished; one day he was there, bickering with Abigail and avoiding Jack like he had the plague, and then in the morning he was gone. Dutch had, predictably and understandably, been livid. But he didn’t seem mad about the same reasons for John’s departure as Arthur was. Dutch was mad about him betraying the gang, shattering that unwavering loyalty that the older man valued unlike anything else. Arthur was mad about John abandoning a toddler and a wife, who had done nothing to deserve her husband leaving like he did. Arthur had done what he could to pick up John’s slack, caring for Jack and what-not, but he had done so out of anger. It brought back harsh memories Arthur had spent years suppressing, all because John had been too much of a  _ coward _ to be a  _ father _ .

Dutch treated John as if he’d gone off on vacation, arms opened and readily accepting his flimsy excuses. Abigail hadn’t been nearly as accepting, but she was too blinded by the fact her husband had returned to see he still had no intention of being an actual father. It filled him with an anger Arthur couldn’t describe, one rooted in his own desires and wants, desperate to tear apart his relationship with John out of sheer spite and pure disdain. It had succeeded; Arthur and John’s relationship — their brotherhood — hadn’t been the same since, and Arthur’s deep-rooted hatred of the man’s decisions had made sure of it.

Christ, Robin was right. He didn’t want John to get off easy. He didn’t want him to be able to erase that year out of existence, to return as if nothing had happened. He wanted John to suffer because the man had thrown away what Arthur had wanted for longer than he could remember; he wanted John to feel the pain of not getting away with it.

It made him feel cruel, selfish, petty, even. He hadn’t truly acknowledged it because he hadn’t actually talked about it — hadn’t faced it outside of words written on paper, rather than words spoken to another — and it brought forth a wave of uncertainty that was almost physical.

And then Robin was apologizing. “ _ Christ _ , Arthur, I’m sorry, I just—“

“No, no, it’s not you, um,” He stumbled over his words, because it kind of  _ had _ been her fault, in a weird and indirect way. But she didn’t deserve that, it wasn’t right. “I don’t talk about it much, if that makes  _ any _ sense — don’t really do much talkin’ to  _ anyone _ ,” He chuckled nervously, feeling an awkwardness set in that immediately made him regret opening his dumbass mouth.

There was a heavy period of silence, neither one of them speaking, Arthur too nervous to do so and Robin… who knew why she wasn’t. When he risked a glance at her face, searching her features for offense, he was relieved to see she looked more pensive than anything else. That, or she had an exceptional poker face. It had been so easy for  _ him _ to talk to  _ her _ that he hadn’t even considered if it was  _ mutual _ ; whether there was a shared connection or she was merely being charismatic — and Arthur was getting swept away in it.

She tucked a strand of hair that had escaped the braid down her back behind her ear, her hand lingering on her neck for a moment, rubbing the area nervously; Arthur had the same nervous tic. “You’re a good man Arthur—“

Foolishly, he cut her off, allowing that immature voice in his head a moment of unrestrained control. “Ain’t so sure about that,”

“—but I can tell this…  _ stuff… _ with John is making it hard to listen to that part of you,”

Arthur wasn’t sure he was a good man, but whenever he focused on that hostility between him and John, it certainly didn’t make him feel like one. He found his hands fiddling with Aegean’s reigns, wanting to focus on something other than the behavioral crisis developing in his head, and he’d almost forgotten about the train entirely.

They rode in silence for a while, passing through the plains in amicable quiet, Robin leaving Arthur to think for a while. It was clear Robin and Arthur both shared that inexplicable need to keep their thoughts private, to bottle them up until they were forcibly let loose; Arthur with his regret and Robin with her anger. While neither one of them seemed willing to break that silence, it was more out of politeness than any awkwardness, but there was a generous amount of that between them as well.

Arthur couldn’t find the right thing to say and was relieved when Robin broke the quiet. “What happened to your other horse?”

“Some fools tried to rob me a couple days ago,” Arthur answered, thinking back to the group of ameteur robbers. “Ended up havin’ to kill ‘em, horse got shot through the neck in the shootout, unlucky thing,”

“You’re good with them,” She complimented, her words making Arthur’s chest fill with a momentary burst of pride. “The horses, not the robbers…”

He shrugged. “Just gotta treat ‘em right,”

“Sure,” Robin replied, scooting over in the road to allow a stagecoach to squeeze past them. “But not a lot of people know how to treat horses,”

Arthur had a hard time accepting compliments, and Robin had cornered him, rendering him unable to find a counter to disprove her reasoning. “Yeah, well, you treat him real nice, too,”

She laughed, leaning forward and patting the neck of her Turkoman a couple times. “What, old Armadillo here? You do anything  _ but _ treat him nice and he’ll smash a hoof into your face!”

“Hell kinda name is ‘Armadillo?’”

There was a story coming, Arthur could tell; her eyes acquired that eagerness he’d seen when she was talking to Sean and Hosea. “His name  _ was _ Barney, but he never responded to it, rightfully so,”

“Christ, I wouldn’t respond if my name was Barney, either,”

“Won him in a game of poker down in  _ México _ , in this shitty saloon outside Hermosillo,” She used her hands like she was pointing at a map, one finger serving as the town and the other as the saloon, hands flying up to gesture quickly before returning to their spot on the reins. If Arthur hadn’t known she were talking, the entire action would’ve looked like some kind of outrageous muscle spasm. “Man figured he could beat a  _ foolish little woman _ such as myself, but he was  _ ripe _ with confidence from the six beers he’d had. Bet his prized Turkoman names  _ Barney _ knowing he couldn’t possibly  _ lose _ ,”

Arthur chuckled. “I’m guessin’ he lost,”

“Naw, I cheated — he would’ve beaten me to a pulp if I hadn’t been the one to shuffle the deck,” Arthur laughed, imagining the look on the man’s face when he’d realized he’d just given away his prized steed. “Anyway, I didn’t have a horse to trade but I got the hell outta there before he realized,”

“Just left him there?” Arthur asked, smirking. They passed an enclosed field full of cows, entering the road through the farm buildings that made up Emerald Ranch. The sun was still high in the clouds, only the bare beginnings of evening showing in the slight darkened tint of the sky.

“Of course — man would’ve passed out as soon as he mounted anyways — but the horse was stubborn as all hell, real pissy,” Armadillo didn’t show it now, with how obediently he listened to Robin’s directions, giving little protest when she pulled at his reins. “I was hardly out of town when the bastard bucked me, not because he was spooked or anything, just because he  _ could _ !”

Arthur laughed heartily, the feeling like a warm blanket after the evening chill set in. He hadn’t laughed like that in a while, and he’d was unpleasantly surprised to find that he had kind of forgotten what it felt like.

“Well, I was about to climb back into the saddle when this rodent scurried past me, and that’s when Barney smashed his hoof clean through it,” Robin made a gesture where she punched a fist into her open palm, the action sparking another quick burst of laughter inside of Arthur. “It was a goddamn  _ armadillo _ , poor thing took an entire hoof through the back. Had to get new pants because the blood wouldn’t come out,”

“Damn,” Arthur said, shaking his head in amusement. “Guess he earned his name, right, then?”

“Don’t know what he did to earn ‘Barney,’ so yeah, he earned it,” Robin said, smiling and giving Armadillo a fond rub behind his ear, the horse giving a satisfied whinny. “Been with me for five years now,”

Arthur thought back to Boadicea, the first horse he’d actually considered his own. She had been a vibrant one, constantly antsy and itching for a run, but she never strayed far from wherever she needed to be. She’d been fast and strong, but illness could tear through even the strongest of creatures, and she’d passed away in the midst of her prime. He hadn’t quite connected with a horse in a similar way since then.

With Emerald Ranch behind them, Arthur knew they were getting close to the shack John told him to meet him at. John would’ve gotten everything ready to go, the wagon rigged and the information sorted out. Charles was probably there, too, whether they knew about Robin coming along, Arthur wasn’t sure. He figured they wouldn’t mind having another capable gun along — it would ensure a secure robbery, at least — and neither of the men were like Bill in regards to having a woman “playing at being a man.”

“Here,” He reached into his satchel, pulling out an extra bandana— it was clean, of course, put aside for cleaning any wounds and things like that. He eased Aegean as close as he could beside her, handing the cloth to her. She looked at it with a raised eyebrow. “To cover your face,”

“Ah,” She tied it around her neck, the emerald green making her eyes appear brighter. “Thanks,”

He hummed in acknowledgement, slowing Aegean down as they rounded the corner, the sound of gunshots entering their ears. The sound was consistent, signally only one gun, and it was the only sound in the area. Arthur allowed his fingers to drift to the revolver at his hip, but upon seeing the rounded tribally hat and the unruly red hair, any nervousness that might’ve leaked through was replaced with irritation. “Oh, for Christ’s sake…”

Arthur dismounted, hitching his horse to a sturdy tree and making his way towards the Irishman, who was making an awful fool of himself attempting a quickdraw and shooting at a line of bottles across from him.

Sean cursed as his bullet went wide, jumping as Arthur spoke with amusement in his voice, “Well, at least it ain’t your job!”

He grumbled in response, twirling his pistol out of its holster again and shooting at another bottle; he missed. “Ah, shut up, Arthur,”

He chuckled, watching over the man’s shoulder as he repeatedly fumbled over his quickdraws. “Yeah, your job’s startin’ the fights, it ain’t winnin’ them,”

“I can scrap, Arthur!” Sean retorted, only sounding mildly perturbed by Arthur’s teasing. “I’m just no good at home work,” He shot again, bullet landing in the rotting wood of the abandoned shack, missing the bottles by at least a foot; Arthur couldn’t even tell which one he had been aiming for.

“I can see,”

“Besides!” Sean said, voice pitching slightly as he allowed some irritation — albeit, friendly — into his words. “What do ye care, Englishman? Ye got no time for me. I tried to find ye work, but then yer off cuttin’ jobs with other folks, and ye boy Sean doesn’t get a look in,”

Arthur could see where this was going. “Guess I don’t wanna get shot, that’s all,”

Sean was beginning to grow legitimately irked at this point, judging by the way his bullets were beginning to miss even more severely than before. “Ah, yer a real fuckin’ funny shit, Arthur Morgan, huh? Real fuckin’ funny,”

Arthur sighed, eyeing the kid skeptically as the Irishman reloaded his revolver with an irritated vigor in his movements. “Calm down,”

“Ye better sleep with yer eyes open,” Sean couldn’t threaten another if his life depended on it, but the intention was there, and it struck a match of anger in his chest.

Arthur took at a step towards him, eyes narrowed. “Yeah? Well you’re gonna sleep with your chest open if—”

Robin made her way towards them, positioning the strap of her rifle so it lay comfortably between her shoulders, resting her hands on her gun belt with an amused expression on her face. “Like watching two bucks slam their heads into each other,”

Sean whirled around to face her, eyes widening slightly upon seeing her, as if  _ she  _ were the one who had shown up unannounced picking fights. “Hell are ye doin’ here, Rivera?”

She shrugged, donning a mask of mock innocence as she spoke with nonchalance, “Dunno, might be here to break up a brawl, but that’s up to you two, it seems,”

Sean caught the subtle warning in her words, reeling himself in with a chuckle that attempted to hide his nervousness. “Ah, ye needn’t worry that pretty head of yer’s, Rivera. I love me man, Arthur Morgan,” He clapped a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, making a show of their  _ camaraderie _ as he swung a hand towards the bottles. “Come on, Morgan, take a shot. Take yer best shot, please!”

Arthur wouldn’t lie — it had taken practice to perfect his draw. But once he did, it was truly a sight to behold. In a blink of an eye, Arthur had his revolver in his hand and the bottle exploding in a shatter of glass, tucking the gun away as quickly as he’d drawn it. “Grow up,”

Sean eyed him with an air of childish edacity, and as Arthur made his way to the oil wagon with Robin falling into line beside him, Sean sputtered out, “Let me come on the raid with ye,”

Arthur scoffed, throwing a confused look Sean’s way. “Raid?”

“Don’t be playin’ coy with me, son,'' Sean said, his choice in words making it clear Sean still hadn’t had a clue exactly what it was he was trying to weasel his way into being a part of. “It’s unbecomin’. That bloody train ye and him has set up,” So he  _ did _ have some idea of what was going on, and Arthur continued to look over the wagon while the kid continued his urging. “What yer doin’ out here, yer goin’ to need guns, yer goin’ to need men—“

Arthur gestured at Robin, who had mounted the wagon and settled into the passenger seat, watching Sean’s hopeless battle with a smirk on her face. “Got men— so Marston told you? It ain’t a big show,” He moved towards the horses, giving them a couple reassuring pats. “I need  _ calmness _ . If I take you, I might as well bring  _ Micah _ along,”

“Compare me to that oily turd again, yer a dead man,” Sean was following Arthur closely, like a lost puppy, and Arthur had a bag of treats in his hands.

He scoffed. “Fair enough,”

That’s when John and Charles came strolling up, John narrowing his eyes at Sean and speaking with annoyance in his words. “What are you doing here, kid?”

“I’m comin’, John,” Sean said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “On the job,”

“I said you  _ weren’t _ coming,”

Sean gestured at Arthur, who had settled himself against the wagon, leaning with his arms crossed. “Yeah, well, Arthur says I am, and it’s his party, so come on, let’s go!”

Arthur most certainly had  _ not _ said that. When John gave him a pointed look, all he could do was shrug and put his hands up in a placating gesture. Sean was already hauling himself into the driving seat beside Robin, and Arthur sent an apologetic look to Charles when it became apparent it was too late to stop Sean.

“Me and the big cheeses, love it,” Sean raved, Arthur feeling bad for Robin for being stuck beside the kid and his lack of proper manners. He also felt bad knowing she’d be stuck between the two of them, Arthur always being the one who was stuck driving — no one trusted Sean with the reins. “Can’t wait to slit some bastard’s throat,”

Robin made a quib to Sean about being “ungentlemanly” before John leaned forward and mumbled quietly to Arthur, “You sure about this?”

“Robin? ‘Course,” Arthur ran a hand down his face when he heard Sean giggle. “Sean? No…” Giving Charles a nod, Arthur asked at a louder octave so that the group could hear, “Are we ready?”

John nodded. “Yeah, train’s due through tonight,”

“Alright then,” Arthur made his way around the front to give the horses one last check. “It’s on. Charles?”

“I’m ready,” He sounded displeased, but he gave a good-natured nod and a small smile when Arthur looked at him. Always a good sport, Charles was, even though it was no secret him and Sean oftentimes didn’t get along well — almost always a result of Sean’s childish longing for attention, however.

Robin was definitely going to be squished, but she didn’t protest as Arthur squeezed beside her on her left. She’d moved her rifle so it was placed between her legs, held in place by her knees and feet so it wouldn’t dig painfully into her back as they drove. Charles and John climbed into the sides, gripping onto the sides of the wagon as Arthur nudged the horses, the wagon moving forward with a jerk. 

The sun had set by now, the lack of the light giving the air a tiny chill, the sounds of crickets and other nighttime creatures a gentle buzz in the background. The moon wasn’t close to full, giving the world heavy shadows as the darkness swallowed up their surroundings. It made driving the wagon a tad bit more difficult, but it wasn’t anything Arthur couldn’t handle. He could feel the warmth coming off of Robin, who was pressed into his side, their shoulders and thighs touching. It warded off the cold a little bit, but Arthur questioned whether or not she was uneasy being so close to him. She wasn’t tense, however, and it served as a slight reassurance.

“Hey…” Charles called, to anyone it seemed. “All the horses untethered?”

John responded. “Think so,”

“Good, they should follow on behind us,”

Arthur spared a quick glance behind them, catching sight of the horses galloping a bit of distance behind the wagon. He caught John’s eyes as he returned his gaze to the road in front of them and asked, “You find a good spot, Wolf Man?”

John pointedly ignored his tease. “Yeah, follow the trail southwest, there’s a spot that’s… remote, but should give ‘em enough time to spot the oil wagon,”

“They see this blockin’ the tracks, they’ll stop soon enough,”

“Apparently, it picks up a new team of guards at the state line, so shouldn’t be much in the way of guns to deal with,”

Sean swooped in, donning that voice of mock offense that served as such a great fight-starter. “See,  _ this _ is what I mean, I disappear for a couple of weeks and ye cut me out of all the action!”

“Just the action that requires a brain,” John replied, and Arthur caught Sean smirk upon getting a response consisting of equal levels of tantalization.

Sean laughed with a mixture of genuine humor and sarcasm. “Oh, yer a funny feller, John Marston. From what folk say, ye hand yer feet up the whole time playin’ sick, and fondlin’ that new scar like yer gonna buy it breakfast in the mornin’,”

John pointed at an overhead sign, bringing it to Arthur’s attention and saying, “Bear left here, towards Rhodes,” He quickly settled into a defensive position, ready to argue with Sean. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,”

Sean was about to retort when Robin interrupted him, voice steady and devoid of any emotion that would’ve hinted at her position in the matter. She spoke like she were placating children, turning to face Sean with an expression Arthur hadn’t caught. “Wolf attacks are nasty business, Mister MacGuire,”

“Yeah? And what do ye know about it?” Arthur never understood why Sean got off on fighting with people — maybe it was just a way for him to train his lack of wits or something — but he didn’t hesitate to shift his focus to Robin.

Little did he know, Robin had proven time and time again that she knew how to handle people like Sean, people who were too cocky for their own good. “Wolves like to  _ mutilate _ , Sean, you know what that means?

“Nope,”

“It means they like to tear flesh apart, rip it to shreds so it feels nicer on their tongues when they eat it,” Robin said simply, tapping her hands on the stock of her rifle. “Not a lot of men survive attacks like that — weren’t luck, it was all that  _ playing sick _ ,”

It was satisfying, how Sean was forced to shut up and fumble around for a rebuttal. Unfortunately, he found one, but it wasn’t a very good one and only served to make him seem even more foolish. “Well, John, gotta make sure ye stay close on this one, wouldn’t want ye gettin’ scratched by a squirrel or somethin’.  _ That _ could put ye outta commission for the rest of the year,”

Charles’s monotonous grumble was a relief, even if it proved fruitless. “Why do you have to speak so much? It’s… incessant,”

Arthur had no doubt in his mind that Sean had no clue what the word meant, but it only served to put him back on track for another verbal showdown between the men. “‘Cause I’ve still got some blood in me veins! Ye old bastards have forgotten how to live,”

“I blame you two for rescuing him,” John mumbled.

Now, Arthur  _ was _ glad they had gotten Sean away from the bounty hunters, but he was beginning to wish they could come and babysit him for a little while, just to shut him up. “Far too much trouble for what we got out of it,”

Sean, of course, took the entire message into the opposite direction. Arthur gave Robin an apologetic look once Sean started going again, but she just shook her head with a smirk on her face. “Yeah, takes a  _ whole _ army of bounty hunters to bring in Sean MacGuire! And look at me now, in the  _ gunner’s seat _ ! Back in business, boys!” He was quiet for a millisecond before resuming his speaking with a newfound pensiveness in his time that Arthur recognized too well. “Ye know, my da always used to say…”

He was rewarded with a trio of groans and a scoff from Robin.

“Not the da, please!”

“No,  _ no… _ ”

“Not this again…”

Sean might’ve actually been offended this time. “Fine! Damn ye… Sulky, Angry, Scar Face… And now…  _ Smartass _ !”

Robin laughed, hard, leaning forward as her breath came out in a hearty wheeze that made Arthur chuckle beside her. “ _ Tuso _ ? I was expecting better!”

“Tuso? I called ye smartass!”

“ _ Tuso _ means smartass,  _ dumbass _ !”

Sean was probably blushing as soon as the other three began to join Robin’s laughter, but he ignored them in favor of asking, “So, we block the tracks with the wagon then jump ‘em? That’s the plan?”

No, not entirely. But Sean got the jist of it, and that was more than what Arthur had expected of him. “Pretty much. Charles, you deal with the conductor. John, secure the passenger car  _ fast _ , take charitable donations and make sure everyone behaves. Sean and Robin, you’re with me after we sort things out,” Nobody protested, roles assigned and confirmed, but Arthur leaned over and spoke quietly into Robin’s ear, “Need you watchin’ my back — don’t trust Sean not to fool around,”

She chuckled softly, nodding just enough to Arthur could see and so that Sean wouldn’t be alerted to his being assigned a babysitter. 

John’s voice cut through the night as the wagon rounded a corner. “Here’s good. Stop the wagon over the tracks,” Arthur eased the horses down from their speedy trot, positioning the wagon over the railroad tracks as John spoke to the entirety of them. “Remember, these are innocent folks. We handle this right, nobody needs to die here,”

Arthur halted the wagon over the tracks, nudging Sean when he took too long to dismount it. He offered Robin his arm out of courtesy and maybe to see her teasing smile for a moment, which served to settle his nerves a little bit. Charles and him worked quickly to unattach the horses from the wagon, shouting to get them running away from the tracks. Sean wasn’t hiding the giddiness in his step and the three others were eyeing him with similar variations of disquietude.

“Everyone!” He pointed to the trees beside the tracks. “Get over there. When she slows, board her,”

Sean was still right beside him, quick to ask, “And you?”

Arthur settled a boot on the tracks, pressing the sole into the metal. “I’m gonna make sure she slows,”

Sean chuckled in admiration, which would’ve been accepted, if he weren’t actively going against the plan  _ already _ . “It’s do or die, with ye, I like it!”

He felt the tracks beneath his foot begin to vibrate. He pointed sharply at Sean and spoke clearly, hoping the directness of it would signal that the kid needed to actually start listening now. “Get movin’,”

Sean scurried away to join the others as Arthur climbed onto the wagon, hauling himself over the back so he was standing on the tankard. He braced himself as it vibrates slightly at the incoming train, sending jitters up his legs and into his spine. He let out a breath, pulling his bandana over his face and readying himself.

It took a moment, each second allowing more and more pent-up adrenaline to flood his veins, but eventually the sound and the sight of it entered his view. The blinding light of the engine twisted through the trees, igniting the world in bright white light, the horn clawing through his eardrums as it drew closer. The ear-splitting sound of the break pressing against the tracks sliced through the air, vibrating his head as the conductor spotted him and frantically made efforts to stop the train. He held his repeater in his hands, shotgun strapped to his back just in case, and he held his ground as the train harshly arrived at a stop a couple feet away from the wagon; they’d been hesitant to stop, it seemed.

A man stepped out, sounding baffled and worried, obviously knowing exactly what was about to happen but still hoping he was wrong about it. “What’s going on here?  _ What’s going on _ ?”

And then Charles was behind him, ramming the end of his shotgun into the man’s head and sending him limply to the ground. Arthur jumped off the wagon, his feet letting out a tiny burst of protest at the impact, and Arthur quickened his pace. “I need to get up there. Finish up here and join us on board,”

Arthur passed Charles in time to see Sean pull a similar maneuver, knocking out a man who had stepped off the train to investigate. Robin was behind him, bandana covering her face and her revolver held in her hands — too close-quarters for the rifle to be considered right now. “Bastard,” Sean spat, rather unnecessarily. But at least he had his face covered and didn’t seem eager to rush forward and initiate a shootout. “All yers, captain, I'll go on ahead,”

Arthur didn’t need to say a thing, only nod at Robin, who followed Sean as he rushed towards the back of the train. He felt a pang of concern for a second, really beginning to doubt Sean’s involvement in the robbery, but Robin would keep an eye on the kid. He didn’t allow it to control his attention for more than a second, and he lifted himself onto the train and into the passenger car.

He caught John shooting a bullet into the ceiling, inciting a wave of alarmed shouts and screams from the patrons. Arthur shoved a man who had launched up at the noise, ramming the end of his repeater into his face and rendering him unconscious. 

“Everybody stay calm nobody’ll get shot,” John moved forward to start on Arthur’s end, holding open a sack for the passengers to dump their valuables into. He stood there, holding his rifle at the ready, merely to appear as threatening as possible — he didn’t want to shoot anyone who didn’t need to be shot. He watched the patron’s faves, women clutching at the arms of their husbands as they handed over jewelry and rings with shaky hands, men giving pocket watches and baubles with nervous eyes but enough confidence to look affronted by it.

One of the men spat out with venom, “I ain’t got nothing,” he had a woman beside him with an obnoxious feather-donned hat gripping his arm tightly, and still he puffed out his chest, acting far more high and mighty than he really was; didn’t matter how rich you were, a gun treated you all the same.

John turned to face him, nodding at the couple. “You wanna have a little chat with Romeo and Juliett here?”

He hoped having the rifle closer to him would snap some sense into the man, but when he gave no notion of changing his plans, Arthur didn’t waste any time slamming the stock into the man’s face. His expensive bowler hat flew off as blood began to drop from his nostrils. “Money, valuables,  _ now _ !”

It wasn’t enough, apparently, because the woman beside him spat out frantically, “Don't do this. Just give it to him, Thomas,  _ please _ !” So, it was like that; a man needing to look high and mighty for his woman. He held back an amused chuckle, understanding just a bit, and the man reluctantly parted with an ornate pocket watch. 

Arthur pushed them out of his mind as he followed John, a woman spitting out with a viciousness that sent chills down his arms, “People like you make me  _ sick _ !” Arthur ignored the way it made him feel sick, too, and followed John as he entered the next car.

John announced the robbery to the passengers, who must’ve seen them coming through the car’s window, as some already had their valuables ready to be handed over. He caught Sean’s voice through the anxious chatter of the passengers. “You boys need me?”

“Naw, you go ahead and look for the baggage car,” Arthur sent back, Sean giving him the affirmative and departing. He saw Robin behind him before the door shut behind them, her face unreadable with the bandana covering it, but her eyes were sharp with focus and her posture steady.

They continued through the car, Arthur needing to introduce a couple patrons to the butt of his rifle more than he’d have liked. But it proved successful, the bag filling steadily with the clinging of metal and the glass-like sounds of jewelry. Eventually they reached the end of the patrons, the last passenger car consisting of only a couple of riders, and John positioned himself to the side so that Arthur could pass. “I can handle this from here, you should check on Sean and Robin,”

That was the plan. “Okay,”

Arthur made his way through the seats, leaving the patrons to John. He spotted Sean and Robin by the entrance to what he assumed was the baggage car, Robin crouched down by the door handle with an instrument Arthur assumed was a lockpick.

“What is it? You alright?” Arthur called, making his way over to the pair.

“Damn door is locked or somethin’ — Rivera said—“ Sean was cut off by Robin tossing herself backward, the door flying open with enough force to throw Sean into the nearby crate. A man launched out, slamming himself into Robin’s side, managing to land a punch to her throat before Arthur could put a bullet through his face. She stumbled as the corpse collapsed into her, shoving the body aside and coughing. Arthur began to rush forward but was forced to bring his repeater up and shoot the guard running along the roof. He spotted another enter the baggage car, shooting between Sean’s cursing form against the train car’s wall and Robin’s cough-filled slouch.

Sean was easing himself into a standing position, cursing colorfully. “Alright, Rivera?”

She leaned forward, hands resting on her knees, bandana pulled down to allow herself unrestricted access to the cold night air. Her voice was strained when she spoke. “Yeah, ‘m fine,”

Arthur lowered his rifle, certain the vicinity was clear. Sean settled himself against the side of the car, swaying even as he leaned against it. The kid looked fine, but his eyes were wide and he was blinking too much; must’ve hit his head. Robin was searching through her satchel, pulling out a bottle full of something green. She caught him looking and she nodded at the car, waving him away.

He eyed her cautiously. “You… sure you’re alright?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” The tightness in her voice didn’t reassure him, but her insistence did; they were in a job, and no one was bleeding or in any other danger. “ _ Hesukristo _ , Arthur, check the baggage,”

“Alright, I'll look around, you provide some cover,” He was going to suggest she sit down but she was already sitting up straighter and moving her gaze to Sean, who was still cursing and complaining, remarking to Robin about how he was seeing double.

Arthur entered their baggage car, taking in the area. There were cabinets along the walls where they stored valuables or other fragile belongings that needed to be packed away. He got to work, rummaging through the cabinets and taking anything that was of value, whether it could be used by them or sold to a fence somewhere. He grabbed all he could, even a tiny bottle of fine brandy that probably didn’t serve an  _ actual _ value.

Although it was muffled, he heard Sean say to Robin, voice heavy with the complaint. “Ugh, I’m gonna have a right old lump on me head,” She said something back that made Sean complain again, but Arthur was farther into the car now, their voices indiscernible with the distance. He grabbed the cash that was tucked away in tiny numbered compartments; he couldn’t count it, but the size alone was enough that he knew it was a good sum. He spotted a pair of tennis rackets and almost laughed. He couldn’t imagine living such a lifestyle, all proper and luxurious. Sure, the money would be nice, but he wouldn’t last a day in  _ that _ kind of society.

As he made his way to the back of the car, he quickly diverted his attention to a trunk tucked in the corner. Opening it, there was a sizable clip of money and some jewelry that even Arthur’s untrained eye could tell was of significant value. At that point, he was relatively sure he had grabbed everything out of the baggage car, and just in time, it seemed.

“Arthur, we got a problem,” Sean called, Arthur moving towards him with his rifle ready. “There’s two arseholes on horses,”

“How many you say?” Arthur called back, watching from within the car as Robin unshouldered her rifle and settled behind a crate, finding suitable cover for what was most likely about to be a shootout.

“I just see a pair of them,”

Arthur exited into the open car, sliding beside Robin behind the crate. “Alright, in that case, were fightin’,” Spying John and Charles in the opposite car, he gestured at them to find cover, speaking as loud as he dared, “Marston, Smith, get ready…”

One of the men called out from their horses, speaking loud and clear and with an air of casual friendliness that was entire inappropriate for the situation. “You men come off the train now, do you hear?”

The other man was much harsher, voice like gravel beneath a wagon. “We said you men come out now!”

Arthur couldn’t help himself. “There’s only two of you, you fools…” He allowed himself to peek over the box for a second, only two horses with two lanterns attached to them in sight. “We got a whole lot less to lose. Why don’t the two of you ride away? That way neither of you get killed. Goddamn liberties…”

Robin sighed beside him, and he caught the tiny wheeze that came along with it. “Arthur, for fuck’s sake…”

“There’s a few more of them turnin’ up,” Sean said, and Arthur really wanted to slap himself. More lights appeared behind them, orange glows cutting through the darkness of the trees. He couldn’t see exactly how many, but enough that it was more than five of them, and now it was  _ them _ who had more to lose.

“Me and my big mouth…” Arthur mumbled, feeling his heart beat loudly in his chest. The odds weren’t the best, but the five of them — well,  _ four _ , because Sean had proven his shooting desperately needed work — were good shooters, and could land more than enough shots needed to get them out of here. They were outnumbered, but Arthur knew they had the skill to hold their own. “Okay… let’s deal with them,”

They were waiting for his mark, and Arthur was plotting his gun’s course of action. He aimed his repeater and fired at the man closest to them, his body falling limply off his horse, and the night erupted in gunfire.

It became apparent, as soon as the bullets started flying, that there were a  _ hell _ of a lot more of them then what first met the eye — Arthur’s big mouth, indeed. He fell into a familiar rhythm, leaning into the adrenaline as it washed his veins, peeling back any exhaustion and ignoring him like a stick of dynamite. The group unconsciously settled on certain levels of men — enough of them had accumulated that there were  _ layers _ of them — Arthur and Robin picking off those in the back with their longer-ranged weapons, John and Sean alternating between those in the middle and those who got too close, and Charles rapidly taking down anyone who got closer than they should’ve. 

They couldn’t move, the positioning of the crates and boxes on the tiny transport car luckily providing them with complete cover, both in front and behind of them. Arthur whirled around when John shouted out in warning, alerting them to reinforcements coming up from behind them. He had to shoot somewhat blindly, their forms hidden in the shadows of the trees, but plenty of bullets landed solidly and the group populated with bodies. He kept an eye on Sean, knowing the kid didn’t have the best shot, but he was holding his own. Charles was shooting his double-barrel faster than Arthur thought humanly possible, and John was landing his shots with consistent accuracy. Robin shot slightly slower than the rest of them, but her shots were fatal, both as a result of her rifle’s damage and the lethal positioning of her bullets — shots aimed at heads and the left side of men’s chests. She never missed, predicting their movements before the men made them, shooting so it seemed her bullets tracked their targets. Arthur envied her skill with a rifle, but he’d have to save any compliments for later.

Soon, there was a break in bullets, the area occupied with more corpses than beating hearts, and they all had the collective idea of whistling for their horses. John shouted with the desperate confidence of shooting for one’s life, “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

Aegean came running from the trees, whinnying nervously at the gunfire and at the blinding smell of fresh blood. He threw himself into the saddle, shouldering his repeater and drawing his revolver instead, favoring the weapon’s one-handed accessibility in case the law gave pursuit.

He made sure everyone else was mounted before he spurred Aegean into a run, shouting out so everyone could hear, “Let’s go! Stay with me!” He chose a direction and went with it, allowing only one glance to make sure there were four familiar faces riding behind him; he permitted a moment of relief when he saw each and every one of them, all looking determined and thankfully uninjured. They all had their side arms drawn, and the sound of hooves on the ground was far louder than it should’ve been for five horses; the law had chosen to pursue.

Arthur cursed when a slice of pain ran down his arm, flinching against the lucky bullet that managed to graze him. Luckily, it was his left arm, and he was more than capable of landing a fatal shot on the lawman who had gotten close enough to land the shot. But they moved quickly and efficiently, using the hills and darkness to their advantage in order to lose sight of the law; if they couldn’t see the law, the law couldn’t see them.

Aegean was panting at the exertion and Arthur mumbled encouragement her way, promising treats once they were out of the hornets nest. They hadn’t ventured far out of the region, the area still the hilly grasslands of the Heartlands, or at least somewhere around there. The shouting of the law was distinctly absent, the only sound in the late night was that of their horses being pushed to the limit, and Arthur lowered Aegean into a stop, the others halting their horses as well.

Sean was laughing out of both relief and enthusiasm, satisfied he got that taste of potential-death adrenaline the kid had been looking for. “That was fun boys, real fun! I can see why they call ye the professionals of the outfit!” He caught his share deptly in his hand, running his fingers along the cash to get a rough estimate.

Arthur tossed the others their cuts, including Robin, even if she hadn’t been acclimated to the gang yet. They’d gotten more than Arthur was expecting, cash alone, not including the valuables John had collected off the passengers. All in all, it was a successful job, even though Sean had unceremoniously weaseled his way into it. 

“Shut up,” Arthur tossed at Sean, not meaning it, still too busy riding the adrenaline and accomplishment to truly be annoyed at the kid.

“At least we made some money…” He ran his finger down the top of the money stack, roughly counting the cash and giving out another triumphant chortle. “And what did I get? Got to be a least a hundred here, very nice,”

Arthur scoffed, tucking his cut into his satchel. “And you weren’t even invited,”

Through Sean giddy laughter, John asked, “What now?”

Arthur allowed that little bit of doubt to creep in, knowing that — while the robbery had yielded some good income — they still needed something bigger to truly escape their pursuers. “We still need a  _ real _ big take, enough to get us out of here,”

“Was that a set up?” John said, and Arthur found he’d been wondering the same thing, just a little bit. “Law turned up real fast,”

Arthur answered honestly, shaking his head. “I don’t know — I don’t think so. I’m startin’ to get nervous,”

“You squeal, Rivera?” Sean quibbed, looking at Robin with raised eyebrows and eyes full of teasing. Jesus, they hadn’t even stopped for five minutes and he was already starting back up.

She scoffed, narrowing her eyes at Sean in a challenging way. “Hell no. Didn’t even know about this until a couple hours ago. You seem to like talking, though, don’t you,  _ Mister MacGuire _ ?”

Shit, that ought to get the damn kid going. Charles must’ve seen it too, because he quickly commandeered the moment of quiet Sean was using to come up with a retort. “Think they followed us from Blackwater?”

“Maybe,” Arthur admitted, thinking back to those two Pinkerton agents that had interrupted his fishing with Jack. “They found me already near Horseshoe, but… I think this lot was just locals,”

“I hope so,” John said. “I’m gonna head into Valentine, see if I can get something started there,”

Arthur nodded. “Good idea. Either way, we should all go it alone right now—“

“Let me see you arm, first, Morgan,” Robin pointed at his shoulder, where a splotch of blood was changing the tan of his jacket into a brownish-crimson. He shrugged, already knowing Robin wouldn’t allow him to go anywhere without it getting attention first, and the other men went off on their different ways. It was still the peak of night, perhaps sometime after midnight at this point, and he felt the lull of sleep pull at him as the adrenaline wore off and the exhaustion set in. It also meant the haze of painlessness was fading, and the wound on his shoulder was beginning to hurt in that weird,  _ itchy _ way.

She dismounted Armadillo, Arthur sliding off of Aegean’s saddle and depositing himself next to her. She rummaged through her saddlebags and produced the first aid kit, failing to hold back a cough that she turned into her elbow to hide. She gave it no acknowledgment as she opened the kit, using Armadillo’s saddle as a weird impromptu table, taking out a bottle of clear liquid and a cloth.

He gestured at her neck, stripping off his jacket and tossing it over his shoulder, beginning to roll up his sleeve. “How’s the neck?”

“It’s not the neck,” She answered simply, pouring some of the liquid — some chemical with a name he couldn’t pronounce that was used to clean out wounds — onto the cloth and pressed it to the wound as soon as his sleeve was lifted enough. Her eyes were narrowed in focus, assuming that concentrated look that made him think back to when she was so close he could count her freckles, pulling that glass out of his neck.

He winced, fingers twitching slightly as the pain spiked before receding again. “What do you mean?”

She looked kind of embarrassed as she explained, even though Arthur didn’t see a reason for her to be. “It’s my lungs — asthma,”

Arthur watched as she wiped down the wound, putting aside the cloth and taking out a hooked needle instead. As she started stitching, Arthur pressed further. “Ain’t quite sure what you’re talking about, name sounds kinda familiar, though,”

“Huh,” She frowned for a second, thinking. “It’s pretty common, actually. It’s a respiratory — a lung — condition, makes my breathing sensitive sometimes,”

That sounded…  _ dangerous _ . Arthur didn’t know much about anatomy, or anything relating to the body outside of which places hurt the most when you punched them, but even he knew the lungs were vital. Breathing was kind of something you needed to do in order to live, and having those organs compromised didn’t sound very reassuring. But Robin, as a medical professional, spoke about it in a way that made it seem it wasn’t as serious as it sounded, but it was still a bit unnerving.

She chuckled, and Arthur figured he must’ve made a face of some kind. “It won’t kill me, probably,”

“Probably?”

“Just gotta be careful sometimes,” She took the knife sheathed on her gunbelt and used it to cut the stitching’s excess, putting the needle back in the kit and taking out bandages. She started to wrap them around his bicep. “Be careful in the cold, make an effort not to get punched in the throat, that kind of thing. It’s not  _ nearly _ as severe as other cases I’ve seen,”

“Sounds… rough,” Arthur wasn’t sure what to say, mostly because he was as healthy as anyone in his line of work could be, probably healthier than those who lived “conventional” lifestyles. He rarely got sick, injuries hardly kept him off his feet, didn’t have any health conditions that he knew of. He’d been given a lucky hand in that regard, and rightfully so, because Arthur was kind of terrible at taking care of himself.

“Not at all,” She tucked the bandage so it was wrapped tightly around his arm, putting away the bandages and returning the kit to Armadillo’s saddlebags. “Annoying, more than anything, so don’t even worry about it,”

“Alright,” Arthur eyed the stitching for a second, humming as he noted how neat it was. Experienced, indeed. He slid down his shirt sleeve and put his jacket back on, feeling the chill of the late night — early morning? — air bite at his exposed skin. “Thanks,”

She laughed softly and mounted her horse. “It’s my  _ job _ ,”

“Don’t mean you gotta do it,” Arthur felt that self-deprecating urge worm itself into his mind, constantly looking for excuses as to why people helped him. He couldn’t accept generosity whenever it came to him personally, something deep inside him always feeling anxious whenever someone did something out of kindness alone. Jesus, he  _ was _ messed up, wasn’t he?

Robin eyed his curiously, Arthur getting that weird sensation he got whenever Hosea picked apart his masks and called his behavior out. Except, Robin didn’t remark on his response, only responding herself. “Not just gonna let it sit there and get infected — you  _ do _ like your arm, right, Arthur?”

He laughed. “I guess so,”

She scoffed, leaning forward and running her hands between Armadillo’s ears. “Got a lead on my brother… I’m gonna go check it out, if you wanna tag along?” She added quickly, “Unless you’ve got some business of your own that needs tending to, of course,”

Arthur suddenly found himself not feeling very tired. He didn’t really think about it, opting to simply answer instead. “I ain’t got any plans, so, why not?”

She smiled, making Arthur’s heart heat up slightly. “Alrighty, I’ll lead the way — probably won’t end up in a shootout, so you can relax,”

“‘Probably?’”


	5. Horseshoe Overlook [5] | Blessed Are The Merciful...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Robin find a weird tree; a little bit of camping ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of exposition, and it felt weird attaching it to the previous chapter and was kind of awkward combining it with the next one, so it's much shorter than usual.

Arthur didn’t talk to people often.

Well, not in a…  _ personal _ way.

Sometimes he talked to Mary-Beth and Tilly, the former a very good listener and the latter at reassuring words. Hosea was good at both in a way that was sincere and honest; two qualities that not a lot of the men in camp were good at expressing. He’d used to confide in Dutch more, back when there weren’t so many of them to worry about, and the man had too much on his plate as of late to take some time for heartfelt conversation. And it also worried Arthur that it would make his appear weak — at a time like this, they didn’t need weak people. Sometimes he’d chat with Charles, who had become a close friend within an unusually short period of time, but he didn’t mention his demons at all, even though the other man could probably provide some sympathetic reassurance — he had his own skeletons Arthur suspected weren’t entirely unlike his own. Javier was wise and frank, but Arthur wasn’t certain they could have any conversation remotely related to personal matters; he trusted the man to watch his back, to support him, but he didn’t seem like a very good listener. Javier seemed the most likely to have internal struggles similar to Arthur’s but he didn’t have the guts to risk asking about it, both out of concern of bringing forth bad memories the man had spent years repressing, and to ruin the camaraderie the pair shared.

Robin was different — he felt reassured talking to her, not needing to worry about judgement or offense, most likely a result of them still not knowing a lot about each other. Arthur found that he knew more about her than she knew about him, and Arthur always had a difficult time talking about himself, regardless of who his listener was. It has resulted in a bit of difficulty connecting with other people, even those in the gang. But then again, each and every one of them had aspects of themselves that they didn’t want to bring attention to, pasts they were hiding from, skeletons in closets they didn’t want to open. When it came to Robin, though, he found himself falling for her easiness, saying things and talking about topics he hadn’t discussed with anyone; he got personal in a way that made him feel vulnerable, but she didn’t treat him as if he was weak or broken or something. He realized just how desperate he had become, that  _ need _ to talk to someone who he didn’t have to worry about ruining a relationship with, to not be judged or ridiculed

He talked about his father. He wasn’t sure what provoked him to talk about him, but he discussed him in a way he hadn’t in a while, not since he was a child and Dutch had been more willing to listen. Lyle Morgan, a man who shouldn’t have been a father, a no-gooder who had — for some reason — turned to arson. He’d watched him get hung, watched his bastard of a father die, and he’d taken his hat from his corpse mere moments after becoming an orphan. He didn’t know entirely why he’d taken it, he’d said to her, and she unexpectedly understood.

She unclipped a strange metal token from her gunbelt, faded and a bit larger than the size of a shotgun shell. She held it up for him to see, Arthur furrowing his brow at the shapes in the metal. There was a man, possibly a Buddhist-type figure, and a bunch of squarish rune-looking things that could probably be read by  _ someone _ . “It’s an  _ agimat _ — specifically a  _ kabal _ . It is, well, was, Rodrigo’s, but I stole it off of him after he killed my brother. I never told you his name, did I?” Arthur shook his head, and she softly responded. “Raymund, and yes, we called him Ray because Jesus my father must’ve been drunk naming him,”

Arthur chuckled. “Well, I’m sure he were a good man,”

“Decent, but yeah, he was kind,” She clipped the token back to her belt, giving Armadillo a nudge when he’d slowed down. “Anyway, I took it for  _ some _ reason, not as a momento, though. It’s got a weird superstition tied to it; supposedly, it’ll protect you from cuts and sword slashes,”

“That’s… specific,”

“I know,” She laughed. “ _ And it doesn’t work _ — I got sliced just fine a couple months ago,”

“Do I wanna know?” He kind of did, but he asked just in case it occurred as a result of something she didn’t want to talk about. But she didn’t seem bothered by whatever left her cut.

She waved a hand in a dismissing way. “Ah, it was my fault; I asked for it. But anyway, I get what you mean about your hat,” She gestured at it. “Suits you though,”

The compliment made him feel nice, especially considering he’d always been self-conscious about certain things, but he didn’t know entirely how to respond so he said a quiet “Thanks,” and let his eyes drift over the landscape.

The forests were getting thicker, signaling their distance from the spacious plains of the Heartlands. She was leading him in the direction of Annesburg, and when he’d questioned it, she elaborated a little bit. They were visiting a bit of oddball near the town, a man who was a bit off his rocker but had a knack for learning about things he shouldn’t know about. How she’d found him and what the man knew, Arthur — and Robin, it seemed — had no clue. 

Regardless, it was drifting towards morning, the sky beginning to fade from a starry navy and towards a greying blue. They didn’t pass many people, only a couple late night travelers and some hunters doing some tracking for nocturnal creatures. Arthur wondered if they’d be robbed, but usually those seeking to do so targeting solitary riders, not a pair with one wearing a visible rifle and another keeping keen eyes on their surroundings; they were remote enough that the wildlife would be a bit more adventurous and the troublemakers hiding in backroads such as these. Arthur kept an eye out, but the area was quiet, nothing but the symphony of nighttime creatures in the air.

Arthur started talking about the gang, giving names and some background — even some of his… choice opinions about a couple — on them, considering it seemed Robin was planning on hanging around for a bit and she still wasn’t familiar with the lot of them. He apologized for Sean, too, in case he’d been a bother in the time they were separated in the train. She’d merely laughed, saying the kid was a dumbass of the “funny” category, and Arthur couldn’t help but agree; Sean might be trouble and annoying a lot of the time, but he was just young and wild, wanting to explore his boundaries and find his position in the world — like a lot of them were.

He asked what she thought of the robbery, finding himself questioning whether she’d be morally bothered by the job or not. Arthur felt guilty sometimes, but he’d been trained not to feel so, but he wasn’t sure Robin had the same experience.

She was honest. “There were  _ a lot _ of rich folk on the train, took some things they’d probably be able to replace some time later — got the money. Got some wedding rings, but didn’t take any spouses, fortunately,”

“Worried about it goin’ wrong?” He asked, unable to see her expression in the lingering darkness.

She thought for a moment. “Well, with the way Sean was going off, kind of had a feeling he’d make a mistake or something. But he didn’t kill anyone, not until the law showed up,” She met his gaze, probably raising an eyebrow; he’d noticed her tendency to do so before she asked important questions. “Pinkertons involved?”

“Naw, I don’t think so,” He admitted, bringing Aegean back into the center of the road when she drifted right and into the grass slightly. “Might need to let the horses rest a bit,”

“Yeah,” She peered around the area, her eyes suddenly widening, not out of shock or anything concerning, but curiosity. “What the hell is  _ that _ ?”

Arthur followed her gaze, his eyes catching on a tree. It looked  _ abnormal _ , to put things simply. It grew straight up for a couple feet before making a sharp turn like an L, growing in a half-square shape before resuming its upward growth. He’d seen a tree split by lightning and another with a face in it — carved by someone bored out of their mind, no doubt — and others with dream catchers hung from the branches, but this one intrigued him to no end. He was probably more curious than he needed to be, and he found himself reaching into his saddle and pulling out his journal, taking a quick sketch of the tree. He felt Robin eyeing his curiously, checking out what he was doing, but she let him sketch for a second patiently. He always,  _ always _ , felt a bit embarrassed when it came to his journal; he didn’t know anyone else who did so. It might be because a lot of the gang couldn’t read or write, coming from backgrounds where such things weren’t considered important, but journaling just seemed like someone a hardened outlaw like Arthur wouldn’t do; it’s why he kept it to himself more often than not.

“Is that… natural?” She asked, sounding as curious as Arthur felt.

He finished up and tucked his journal back into his saddle, considering the tree for a second. “I ain’t got a damn clue,”

She chuckled, dismounting Armadillo and grasping his reins, leading him off the road and towards a clearing in the forest. Arthur did the same, falling in beside her. “The things out here sometimes…”

“Got that right,” He knew Aegean would stick around, so he didn’t tether her, allowing her to roam around a little bit and graze. Robin did the same, Armadillo immediately making his way towards a blackberry bush, Aegean too busy on her patch of grass to realize the goodies he had found. “I’ll get a fire goin’,”

Robin nodded, before asking, “Can go hunt down some… breakfast?”

Arthur pulled out his pocket watch, checking out the time; 3:39 in the morning, damn. His sleep schedule was definitely a mess with both everything happening with the gang and his nighttime escapades, looking for herbs and animals for pelts; he’d spent a night looking for those bones for that woman — Debbie, was it? He couldn’t entirely remember, thinking back and recalling he’d written about her a tiny bit in his journal; surely her name was in there somewhere.

“Sure, just watch out, thinkin’ there might be some cougars,” Arthur replied, getting a firm nod in return. When she made to leave, however, Arthur found himself stopping her. “Hold on,”

He led her over to Aegean, who had figured out what Armadillo had found and was munching on the bush alongside him. He pulled out his bow and a couple arrows, Robin eyeing the weapon with a look of agreement.

“Rifle’s a bit strong,” He said, handing her the bow before asking, “Know how to use it?”

“Enough to hit something if I get close enough, but yeah, my rifle probably’ll blow half the animal away,” She smiled in thanks, sliding her rifle into Armadillo’s saddle and heading on her way. He had no doubt she’d return with something, most likely a rabbit, considering a deer would be a bit  _ much _ and one rabbit would be more than enough to satisfy both of them.

Arthur began to set up camp, letting his thoughts wander anywhere and nowhere. He thought about Mary and the leggier Grimshaw had given him, the older woman making her disdain towards the woman clear when she had handed it to him. It had been years ago, him and Mary, and he'd fallen for her harder than he should have, especially since he knew it would never work between them. She was married now — now Mary “Linton” — her father commandeering her life just as harshly as he had over a decade ago. She’d broken his heart; he was young and foolish, giving her all he had when he shouldn’t have given her anything. But the letter had sounded important, and if she needed help, he felt…  _ obligated _ , in a way. It wasn’t healthy; he needed to move on.

As he worked on the fire, striking a match and adding some dead branches to get it going, he wondered about John and what Robin had said about him. He hoped the damn kid would pull his head out of his ass and realize what a wonderful family he had, how stupid he was being with Jack, how carelessly he was treating Abigail. He thought about when they were younger, how annoying John had been, skinny as a beanpole and following him around like a lost puppy. He wondered if John still looked up to him amidst the pieces of their tarnished brotherhood.

Once the fire was going, Arthur sat beside it, pulling out his journal and crossing his legs to use his thigh and an impromptu writing desk. He wrote about the robbery under the sketch of the tree, about how nice it was to actually talk to someone instead of hiding his words within paper, about John a little bit. Once he head dried out, he pulled out some gun oil and polished down his revolver, which had gotten a bit dirty from the shootout. He was in the middle of doing so when the sound of someone approaching cut through the air, and he pointed his revolver towards it, feeling his stupidity taunting his in his thoughts when he recognized Robin’s face.

He quickly apologized but she merely waved him off, holding a rabbit in her hands with the bow hanging off her shoulder. She got to work skinning it, efficiently and experienced, showing her familiarity with nights (mornings?) like this. He wondered where she learned, which brother, probably. She got blood on her hands but didn’t give it any acknowledgement, and a rather intrusive thought popped into Arthur’s head — she wasn’t very ladylike, was she? He almost scoffed at himself; it didn't matter that she was a lady, she was capable in many ways that even the men Arthur knew weren’t. Arthur wondered what kind of hardships she’d endured throughout her life — her thirty-two years, she had mentioned offhandedly — and the reasons behind her learning to do what she knew how to do.

As they ate the rabbit in amicable silence, Robin suddenly asked, “Can I ask what happened in Blackwater?”

Arthur nodded, his mouth full, practically hearing Grimshaw yelling at him not to chew with his mouth open. “I wasn’t really there, so I ain’t able to tell you exactly, but Dutch and some of the others tried to rob a ferry. Goddamn mess, that was, ended up in a shootout,”

“Huh, I heard about that,” She remarked. “Wasn’t around then — how bad was it?”

“Bad enough for them to call it the ‘Blackwater Massacre,’” He hadn’t meant to say it so bitterly, but Arthur had his opinions on the matter, and most of them involved being mad at several other members of the gang for various reasons — Dutch included, for being so volatile and shooting that poor woman for seemingly no viable reason at all.

“You lost people, didn’t you?” She questioned, her voice soft, knowing they’d passed into unsteady territory.

Arthur nodded, rubbing at his neck. “Lost  _ three _ of us, got nothin’ outta of it, and now we’re runnin’ and hidin’ like all hell,”

“How long ago was this?”

“May, so about two months now — that’s why the gang was so… tense when you first came. Dutch was worried about you  _ being our demise _ ,” He said the last couple words with heavy sarcasm, even though Dutch kind of didn’t deserve it; he’d been stressed, rightfully paranoid, having over twenty people looking up at him for guidance he hadn’t been able to provide.

She hummed in understanding, tossing a bone into the fire. “Reckon we got a couple hours until it gets light. Catch some shuteye?”

That sounded  _ great _ right about now, even if it would only be a couple hours. Arthur could run for days without sleep, his body adapting to the activity, and Hosea had insisted he needed to stop doing that and give himself some time to rest. He had that time now, the both of them did, so he figured he should take it; might not be able to rest for a while, if circumstances prevented it. So he nodded, holding back the yawn his body threw his way, and went to collect the bedrolls. Robin cleared out some flatter area, kicking sticks and pebbles so they wouldn’t give their backs knots. He handed her the bedroll, making sure to place his a respectable distance away from her to give her space.

He couldn’t help but groan once he laid down, allowing his limbs to finally relax for a moment. Robin chuckled beside him, already shutting her eyes. Sleep tugged at him persistently, impossible to resist, and he caught Robin looking distantly at the stars before unconsciousness wrapped its warm arms around him.


	6. Horseshoe Overlook [6] | ...For They Shall Obtain Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it was time Arthur learned a little bit of Spanish; crazy men do crazy things.

Arthur was a light sleeper, so it wasn’t surprising that he woke up before Robin.

His sleep was dreamless, and even though it had been short, it was refreshing. He stretched, joints popping and muscles stiff from lying on the ground, but it wasn’t uncharted territory; he was used to waking up feeling like he was coiled up like a snake more often than not. Robin lay on her side, still in a deep sleep and looking nowhere near consciousness. He figured he’d let her rest a bit longer, especially when he pulled his pocket watch out and saw it was only around seven.

He checked on the horses, not before sketching them quickly from his bedroll, making sure they got a couple apples and weren’t injured in the shootout — he should’ve checked them over sooner. Aegean had connected with him a lot more in the past few days, more open to his affection, listening better to his askings. He brushed the dirt from her coat and checked on Armadillo, who made his distrust towards Arthur known through the unsteady shifting on his hooves. Arthur mumbled soft encouragement to the horse, Aegean’s presence on the horse’s opposite side seeming to assist him a bit, and eventually he let Arthur get close enough to feed him a pear. He didn’t want to test his boundaries, though, so he didn’t pet him and left it at that, wondering just how hard the horse could kick to break through an armadillo’s shell…

Arthur was smothering the remains of the fire when Robin woke up, quick and almost instantly, blinking rapidly against the morning sunshine. He chuckled at her disorientation as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Get some sleep?”

“Yeah, you?”

“Yeah,” Stomping the dirt just to make sure the fire was entirely extinguished — he wasn’t too keen on stupidly starting a forest fire — he moved over to pack up his bedroll. “How close are we to… wherever we’re goin’, you reckon?”

She rolled up her bedroll, whistling Armadillo over to pack it up. He abandoned his patch of grass in favor of listening to Robin, nudging her hand as he sought out affection. “Um… bit under an hour, maybe? Probably a bit less if we pick up the pace a little,”

“Alright,”

With a pleasant amount of food in his stomach and a couple hours of undisturbed rest, Arthur was feeling much better than he usually did. Maybe it was because he’d actually taken some time towards taking care of himself, listening to his body’s needs instead of keeping himself so busy he neglected it.

He mounted Aegean while Robin mounted her own horse. He gave the camp one last look, just to make sure, and there were few signs anyone had been there. Not that it would have mattered; Arthur had acquired a tendency to make conscious efforts to erase his presence in the world, even though he didn’t need to on most occasions.

“C’mon,” Robin said, snatching him from his wandering thoughts. She eyed him curiously for a second. “You sure you wanna come?”

There was a bit of doubt in her voice, probably because they still were  _ strangers _ , in a way. They got along well, sure, but it hadn’t been long since they’d met. She was probably wondering whether he was being polite, not saying no, rather than tagging along out of genuine interest. “Gotta lie low for a couple days, so might as well get some distant business sorted out,”

“Yeah?” She wasn’t entirely reassured, so he insisted further.

“Sure, figured I’d help you out — since you offered,”

She chuckled. “We’re  _ square _ , Arthur,”

Oh, he must’ve been too obvious. Arthur might have unsteady opinions towards his own life’s value, but it seemed Robin was consistently performing deeds that made him feel as if he owed her further; the Reverend, then Six Point Cabin, and now the train robbery. She didn’t  _ have _ to do those things, because god knows the Van der Linde gang didn’t owe her a damn thing. But she’d proven to be far more useful than some of the others in the gang, helping get them out of this post-Blackwater mess, even though she didn’t have a viable reason to do so.

It made him wonder how someone could be so kind, so…  _ good _ . Doing things and expecting nothing in return, helping others who didn’t owe her a thing, saving the lives of people who didn’t mean anything to her. He hadn’t met someone like her before, someone who didn’t submit to this world’s cruelty. And yes, she was violent when she needed to be, amoral in the same ways Arthur and the others were, unbothered by acts that could certainly be considered “indecent.” And yet, it seemed, she hadn’t reclined into that edginess Arthur had; he’d grown mean as he settled into the role of an outlaw, and he hadn’t been proud of it. Certain cruelties were necessary, but others were not, and Arthur had a hard time seeing which was which.

Robin seemed keen on making her point known — that Arthur didn’t owe her anything — but was fruitless. “Anyway, you saved me and Sean from that bastard on the train, so,”

He had, even though Robin could have dealt with him, most likely. Sean had been too busy seeing double, so he’d definitely been in need of saving, but Robin? As he thought about it, he kind of found himself agreeing with her. She’d been disadvantaged, put off by the man knocking the wind out of her by punching her in her neck — which was  _ definitely _ bruised, but he couldn’t tell as she’d kept that emerald bandana tied around her neck.

He couldn’t come up with a counter for that, so he simply said, “Alright,” and continued to follow alongside her, allowing her to lead to their destination.

It had started to get a tad bit colder, the sun warding it off somewhat, but Arthur’s coat wasn’t entirely suited for the northern temperatures. Robin had that scout jacket so he knew she was comfortable, but his hat kept his ears slightly warmer. But he ignored the way his arms chilled up, Aegean’s body heat keeping his legs from doing the same; he needed to remember to pack a warmer coat for travels such as these. But it wasn’t cold enough for his breath to cloud the air, and he was glad for that.

“Probably saved Sean more than I saved you,” He said it like a friendly quib, rather than a way to diffuse the compliment.

He got a laugh in return. “You should’ve seen him, my god. ‘Gonna look like a bloody unicorn with this bump on me head!’”

Arthur laughed, the accent surprisingly accurate. “That damn kid, always so dramatic,”

“He likes the attention,”

“You have no idea,”

Robin suddenly pulled back on Armadillo's reins, easing the gelding into a stop. Aegean wasn’t pleased with having her nice jog interrupted, but Robin was pointing into the trees at a run-down cabin, light shining through closed curtains. “Think that’s him. Man I met in the saloon said he lived in a cabin off of Annesburg,”

Arthur nodded at the cabin, which was hardly visible through the trees. “Think that’s him?”

Shrugging, Robin urged Armadillo forward, glancing at him and saying, “Don’t know, but what’s the worst that could happen?”

A couple ideas sprung to mind, but he kept them to himself. He followed her through the trees, eyeing the cabin cautiously. It was small, one room, the roof seemingly one thunderstorm away from collapsing and the walls discolored with decay. There were no horses, no signs of anyone living there outside of the lights peeking through moth-eaten curtains. There was an eerie quiet that set Arthur on edge, the urge to draw his pistol growing hard to resist.

They hitched their horses to a pair of sturdy trees, opting to keep any weapons beside their revolvers on the horses. Going off of what Robin had said about the man, he wasn’t entirely… stable. Whether that meant he was a bit eccentric, missing half of his brain, or bloodthirsty, Arthur had no idea — Robin didn’t, either. He settled his hands in his gun belt, appearing casual as Robin knocked softly on the door, but it was an excuse to keep his hands close to his weapon.

“¿ _ Quién está ahí _ ?” The voice was muffled behind the door, but Arthur caught the heavy accent and the Spanish — none of which he understood.

Javier had taught him a tiny bit, but almost all of it was curse words and threats, enough to know if someone speaking to him was a friend or foe. He couldn’t have a conversation — he hardly could in  _ English _ — and definitely couldn’t listen to anyone speak more than one word to him. He’d been interested in learning, but he never had the time and doubted he had the patience, either. Learning how to read and write from Dutch and Hosea had been borderline on torture, but there were few things he was as grateful for as their efforts. He wasn’t sure he could be reduced to that almost primitive feeling of not knowing a language.

Robin glanced at Arthur, flicking her eyes at the revolver on his hip;  _ keep an eye out— he might not be a friend _ . The message was loud and clear, and Arthur inched his hands closer to his gun, resting his fingers on the grip.

“Are you Matias?” She asked, voice polite and friendly, but she didn’t get a response. Sighing, she tried again. “¿ _ Es tu nombre Matias _ ?”

He responded then, confirming Arthur’s suspicions that the man didn’t know much English. “ _ Sí _ — y-yes. Who ask?”

“My name —  _ me llamo Robin _ ,” She glanced at Arthur, who nodded. “ _ Mi amigo se llama Arthur _ . ¿ _ Podemos hacerle algunas preguntas _ ?”

Arthur felt lost — and kind of dumb. He had a general idea of what the conversation was about, not because he understood the words but because he knew how introductions worked. The man was hiding behind his cabin’s rotten door, but there was a wide crack in it, and he was most likely using it to peek through at them. He might’ve had a gun trained on them, too, hidden behind the wood. Arthur didn’t know how crazy this man was, only that he wasn’t entirely stable, which was more than enough to make him want to draw his gun.

But the Spanish seemed to have lowered his hostility moderately; not a lot of people around these parts spoke anything but English, and maybe that connection was straightforward enough to signal their non-hostile intentions. Yet he still didn’t open the door, and spoke with a sharp tone that clearly showed his distrust. “Want… kill me?”

“No,” She answered firmly, keeping her voice amicable and steady. Arthur had to admire that; she was better with people than Arthur thought possible. Or maybe Arthur just didn’t understand how to be kind to people. “ _ Nosotros queremos hablar contigo. Puedes quedarte detrás de la puerta, si te sientes más cómodo de esa manera _ .”

_ That _ was a lot of words Arthur couldn’t even remotely pick apart. He could figure out some Spanish by sound alone, the words that sounded similar to English he could understand — at least, come up with an educated guess as to their translation. So he let Robin lead, and anyways, Arthur was the one  _ tagging _ along. He still wasn’t sure what was going on exactly, but he trusted Robin, so he didn’t worry.

The man opened the door, and — unsurprisingly — pointed a shotgun at them. Robin didn’t flinch, despite it being a few inches from her face, one finger twitch away from blowing her brains out. Arthur felt the instinct to draw his gun but then Robin’s hand was on his wrist, halting him.

“ _ Cualquier asunto divertido _ , I shoot you,” He didn’t need to speak English to make his point clear; do anything suspicious, they had a bullet with their names written on them.

The man was short, stubby, build in a weird way that made him kind of round but freakishly muscular. He was older, hair that might’ve been brown graying harshly, with a tangled beard on a greasy face. Arthur noticed how one of his eyelids were closed, the eye behind it most likely missing; there was probably a story in there somewhere. Regardless, he used his open eye to throw daggers of suspicion at them, taking in the weapons on their hips and their faces. The man’s gaze lingered on Arthur for a second, and he felt a jerk in his chest when he realized the man might’ve recognized him. Whether or not he did, he didn’t bring attention to it, kicking the door out so the pair could enter.

The cabin’s interior mirrored the man’s ragged appearance; there was a semblance of a kitchen, a crumbling fireplace full of burning wood, the head of a buck missing an antler above it, something of a sofa in the center of the room. There was a table with two chairs crammed in a corner, an old cot squished in the opposite one, and a rocking chair in the corner missing one of the armrests. A smell distinctly like the scent of burning wood, tobacco, and baked beans wafted through the cabin, strong enough that Arthur made a face when he entered. The man didn’t notice — or maybe he did and simply didn’t care — and pointed his shotgun at the two chairs in the corner, Arthur and Robin quickly settling into them; they creaked dangerously beneath them.

Robin spoke quietly to him as the man went and shut the door, fumbling with it slightly as it’s rusted hinges protested. “Let me handle the talking,”

“Ain’t got a clue about Spanish, don’t understand nothin’ of what you’re sayin’,” Arthur admitted, Robin giving him an amused smile, but it vanished in favor of a serious expression when the man returned his attention to them. He raised the shotgun, worryingly distrustful; maybe he’d already decided to shoot them and merely wanted to toy with them a bit.

He leaned against the couch, keeping the shotgun between them, looking for any kind of threatening movement. “Ask question,  _ pero las respuestas se darán  _ después _ de que pague _ ,” He took a hand off of his shotgun, rubbing his fingers together in the universal gesture for money.

Robin scoffed, reaching into her saddle and pulling out some cash, voice laced in exasperation as she responded. “ _ Obtendrás la otra mitad  _ después _ de que obtenga mis respuestas _ .”

The man laughed, the sound rather ugly, coming from deep in his throat and muffled in the way a chronic smoker’s voice got. He waved a hand at Arthur, eyeing him. “He question, too?”

Arthur held up his hands, gesturing in a declining way. “Nope, no questions here,”

The man understood, practically erasing Arthur’s presence from the room as he diverted all his attention to Robin. “¿ _ Cuál es tu pregunta _ ?”

“ _ Un hombre pasó por  _ Annesburg _ hace un par de semanas _ ,” She said, eyeing the man for any changes in his expression; he kept that snarl on his face that exposed his crooked teeth. “ _ Él se parece a mi. Podría haber usado el nombre  _ Robert _ o  _ Raymond _. Tiene una cicatriz en la barbilla.  _ ¿ _ Suena familiar _ ?”

The man assumed a considering look, thinking, his wrinkled features wrinkling even further.

And then he smiled.

It was an ugly sight, teeth rotten and uneven, glazed-over eyes igniting with a vigor that sent chills down Arthur’s spine. An overwhelming feeling of dread rushed through him, and Arthur allowed his hand to drift towards his revolver. And when the man spoke, Arthur didn’t need to know what he was saying, because the excited venom in his words sounded just like Micah before he shot up Strawberry.

“ _ Pagó más que tú _ .”

Robin slammed into him, shoving him off the chair and into the floor, the deafening sound of a point-blank shotgun blast sending ripples through his head. There’s no blood, Robin is cursing — she's alive — and Arthur can see everything through the heightened clarity of an adrenaline rush. He can hear the man reloading, his hands perhaps not as willing as they used to be, feeling the repercussions of using a gun like a double-barrel. Arthur doesn’t waste any time; he throws himself forward, the man too busy reloading to react appropriately to the fist colliding with his face. The man stumbles, however, obviously used to brawls to the extent that a strong punch to the face isn’t enough to knock him out. Arthur instead focuses on wrestling the shotgun out of his hands — the goddamn thing was loaded.

There was a gunshot, but not from the shotgun, but from somewhere behind him. The man goes limp, his face disfigured from the bullet that went through it. Some of his blood got onto Arthur’s face, the man close enough that he knows by the wetness on his cheek that there’s _ a lot _ of red on his face. Arthur shoved the man away, tossing the rusted shotgun next to him.

“Shit,” Arthur’s voice comes out sounding odd, and he realizes that Robin said the same thing. He turns to face her, an expression of anger on her features. There’s a tiny cut by her hairline, a tendril of blood running along the side of her face, hair escaping its knot behind her head, but otherwise she appears fine. Shaken, just like Arthur is, but looking incredibly  _ displeased _ by the situation.

Arthur takes out a handkerchief from his satchel, rubbing at the man’s blood on his face. “What the hell happened?”

She touched the cut on her head, poking at it, checking to see how deep it was. “Asked him about my brother. He said that ‘he paid more than you,’”

He’d need to wash the rest off at camp. He tucked the cloth back into his satchel. “Well… you know he was here, recently,”

She nodded, eyes hardened in the way they got whenever someone subdued their anger. Her limbs were tense and her fists clenched at her sides. He knew the anger she had towards her brother, a past that was sensitive and full of bad memories, and Arthur knew damn well it was a relationship he probably shouldn’t get involved in. But it went back to that feeling of owing her  _ something _ , of needing to repay her, and doing… whatever  _ this _ was… seemed to be helping in alleviating that pressure in his conscience.

Then the window shatters, and Arthur’s hat is flying off his head, a bullet missing his skull by millimeters.

He drops to the ground, Robin doing the same, finding cover against the cabin’s rotting wall beside the window. He hears the sound of horses — more than one, judging by the hoof beats — and soon men are shouting orders at each other. It’s in English now, but they share the heavy accent of backwoods no-gooders, and Arthur can’t entirely understand anything outside of the harsh sound of some sort of leader barking orders. Arthur cursed at the multitude of voices outside of the walls, their numbers signally the beginning of a disadvantaged fight. Arthur risks a tiny peek through the shattered remains of the window, catching sight of a group of men who don’t look like law, nor O’Driscolls.

“How many?” Robin asks from her spot next to the opposite wall, the window above her too dirty to see through. She had her pistol ready.

“Too many,” Arthur couldn’t tell — he could hardly peer through the broken shards of the window without risking his head getting blown off — but he knew by sound alone that they were outnumbered. The pair of them might be good shots, Robin accurate and Arthur quick, but with this many men… skill wouldn’t do a damn thing.

A man spoke, voice unfamiliar but stern, giving the beginnings of an ultimatum. “We know you’re in there, Arthur Morgan!” Arthur winced upon hearing his name; bounty hunters, of a sort, it seemed. “We don’t need  _ you _ alive to get paid, but the woman… hand her over and maybe we won’t kill you,”

Robin grimaced, shutting her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, the fury within them made Arthur’s stomach churn. He didn’t want to be on the opposing end of  _ that _ — hell no. She met his gaze, some unsaid words spoken between them, the severity of the situation settling in. He could see her shuffling through ideas, contemplating ways to get the hell out of here, weighing the odds.

But Arthur was confused. He had a bounty on his head, absolutely, a price that would make even the stupidest of bounty hunters try to take him in. It had skyrocketed after Blackwater, despite him not even participating in that mess with the ferry — guilty but association, indeed. But they’d been running so hard recently, dodging the law and keeping their faces hidden. Of course, they hadn’t been quiet, but the law wasn’t entirely on their trail. The Pinkertons, though…

Yet, as far as Arthur was aware, Robin didn’t have a bounty; at least, she never  _ mentioned _ one. Yeah, she committed her fair share of crimes, indulged in plenty of illegal activities. But it sounded like a majority of it had occurred in Mexico, thousands of miles away and in a separate country. Here, in America, she’d perhaps had a clean slate. It brought back the reality that, yes, they’d been through some crazy things together, but that didn’t mean they still weren’t strangers, in a way.

The window above Robin shattered as a bullet flew through it, forcing her to duck her head beneath the sleeve of her coat as shards rained down on her. She grimaced, and Arthur had finally decided they were out of time.

It was a stupid idea, really, but Arthur didn’t have another one. There was only one door in the cabin, the one where men with guns were waiting outside of. Yes, there were windows behind them, but they couldn’t run fast enough to escape several men on horses. Outnumbered enough that shooting seemed futile, turning himself in wasn’t an option, and he definitely wasn’t going to toss Robin into their hands. So he settled on the wild thought in his head, the burst of desperation that he gripped tightly and refused to let go; he’d had worse ideas, after all.

He reached into his satchel, running his hands through the items, finding the coarse touch of the explosive with his fingers. Robin’s eyes widened when she caught sight of the dynamite in his hand, but she didn’t stop him, merely ducking down behind the wall and readying herself for the explosion. Arthur hesitated, wondering if he might just doin them by settling on something so unpredictable, but decided he could regret it later — preferably around a warm campfire with a nice cup of coffee in his hands.

“You’re outnumbered, Morgan!” The man called, Arthur still not catching his face; he decided he didn’t give a shit. “This don’t have to end bloody,”

That was a lie,  _ obviously _ . They’d rode up here expecting violence, and they were gonna get it.

Arthur knew Robin was as ready as she could be. He allowed himself the tiniest sliver of sight over the window, calculating the trajectory to hit as many of them as possible. Fortunately, they were clumped together very well, no horses nearby to get caught in the blast. He hoped Armadillo and Aegean were close enough that they’d come running when whistled for, ready to get them as far from this shithole as possible — before one of them got shot.

No, that wouldn’t happen. Arthur didn’t mean to sound like Dutch, but he had a plan, and he had faith in the both of them that they’d get out of this just fine.

So, he threw the dynamite, watching it soar through the air and aiming his pistol, the world slowing down as he fired. He barely had enough time to duck back behind the wall as the blast erupted, deafening and making his ears ring. A wave of heat followed by a blast of pure force pushed his from the wall slightly, the power of the dynamite making the rotting walls protest; fortunately, they stubbornly refused to cave in. The sounds of men screaming and shouted, tinted by the whinnies or panicked horses, erupted into the air instantaneously. Arthur didn’t wait, his ears throbbing, dust clouding his vision, and started shooting.

There was blood, enough of it that Arthur could tell plenty of them had been injured from the explosion; there were bodies that had parts missing but he didn’t focus on it long, ignoring the way it made his stomach churn. The others had rushed back into the trees, losing enough of their numbers that they couldn’t entirely commence a proper offensive attack, Arthur and Robin given enough of a fighting chance that casualties were inevitable. Arthur shot the pair that hadn’t quite retreated fast enough, his shots not landing in exactly the spots he aimed at — they hit close enough that the two men fell to the ground. Robin was shooting, landing her shots consistently, looking unharmed and holding her own efficiently.

Arthur counted seven bodies on the ground and at least that many shooting confidently from various pieces of cover. He saw Robin land a shot at a man who had poked out from behind a tree too much, the bullet going through his neck and joining his friends on the ground. Arthur was shooting fast enough that he was catching limbs, forcing men back to lower than chances of getting hit. The ones who tried to move somewhere safer got bullets in their backs — he downed two that way — and the others were too busy being suppressed by Arthur’s gunshots that they didn’t pay attention to Robin’s.

It was a frantic haze of bullets whizzing by, of men screaming when shots hit fatal points, of adrenaline making his head feel clogged. They kept shooting, numbers dwindling, watching each other’s bullets and instinctively knowing when and where to shoot to support the other. Arthur couldn’t help but reflect on how well they worked together, an unspoken system forged from two pasts consisting of similar experiences; he had his weaknesses that Robin made up for, while she made some mistakes Arthur could quickly remedy. He didn’t feel the worry of something going wrong; he was watching things go right, better than they usually did, and it wasn’t a product of luck, but of skill and teamwork.

And then someone shouted with a voice full of desperation, “Let’s get the fuck outta here, boys! I ain’t dying over this shit!”

Arthur watched as they ran, zigzagging through the trees, forced to go on foot when their horses went running after the explosion. There seemed to be universal agreement that it was time to retreat, and Arthur used their fleeing to find his hat. It was in the center of the room, and when Arthur picked it up, there was a tiny mark where the bullet had gotten close enough to run against the leather; another scar for the hat’s collection.

The quiet made the ringing in his ears apparent, duller than it had been but still annoyingly strong. He swallowed and they popped painfully, making him wince. But it alleviated some of the pressure and he was more than satisfied by that alone. He heard Robin curse — at least, it  _ sounded _ like a curse — but it was muffled to the point where Arthur wasn’t entirely sure what she had said.

“We clear?” He asked as she looked through the shattered remains of the dirty window.

She eyed him with a narrow gaze, clearly examining him in a way that made him feel like a specimen behind glass, her voice sounding like she was talking into a pillow. “You’re yelling,”

He waved at his ears. “Kinda… hard to hear,”

She nodded, putting a finger up to her lips and approaching the door. Her hand lingered on the doorknob, Arthur understanding her intention; one last look around to make sure things were actually clear. Arthur kept his revolver in his hands, ready to shoot anything outside that was waiting for them, allowing Robin and her working ears to take the lead. She swung the door open, crouched slightly in case someone was aiming a shot where her head would’ve been. But the area was quiet — although Arthur’s ears weren’t very reliable right now — and she lowered her revolver; it didn’t go past him how she shoved it into its holster a bit harder than necessary.

He could see it in the way she was walking, tense and wound-up, as she put her hands behind her neck and started pacing. It wasn’t unlike an anxious wildcat, walking along the edges of its cage, full of energy that was held back behind bars. He saw the way her eyes were hardened, the soft green looking closer to the leaves during a thunderstorm than the grass on a summer morning. They were bright with anger threatening to spill, held back by willpower alone, and he felt like he was looking at a starving wolf rather than one of the kindest people he’d ever met.

Arthur knew better than to tell her to calm down — that  _ always _ had the opposite effect whenever it came to placating someone as pissed off as this. So he let her walk back and forth, her fists clenching and unclenching from their spot behind her neck, held up like she was about to raise them in surrender. He started checking the bootleg bounty hunters’ bodies, searching for some kind of information or any valuables — always a pickpocket, he was. He wasn’t surprised when he found a folded-up wanted poster with his face on it. The posters always seemed to make those depicted on them as unflattering as possible, only serving to make anyone in the poster harder to identify. This one seemed of higher quality, the details of his face and the description below a but more accurate; he didn’t have the short beard anymore, opting for a clean shave to deter lawmen a little bit more — it made him look a bit more approachable, it seemed.

“ _ Kantot _ !” Arthur flinched, nearly drooping the poster in favor of drawing his gun, only halting himself when he recognized the voice behind the unfamiliar words.

“Bless you?” Arthur  _ probably _ shouldn’t have said that, immediately grimacing and feeling alarmingly foolish for spitting it out.  _ Why _ did he always find the most inopportune moments to make jokes?

He readied himself for a verbal explosion full of angry words and cursed — he’d been on the receiving end of plenty of those — but Robin was silent for a moment. She gaped at him, quiet for too long, and then  _ laughed _ .

It was the desperate kind of laugh, pulled from the depths of your stomach and barked out obnoxiously, full of relief and disbelief; it was the result of something difficult to process. She looked crazy, honestly, but he found that peculiar need to laugh rise up inside him, too. Yet he held it back, still cautious that her reaction wasn’t going to end up venomous.

She ran a hand down her face, digging her palms into her eyes and groaned. “This is all my fault,”

He was in the middle of tearing apart the poster, stopping at the unexpectedness of her words. “What?”

Her pacing halted and she rested her hands on her belt, forcing herself to relax in an attempt to calm herself down. She didn’t seem angry anymore, but sad — guilty — and the heaviness in her voice showed it. “My stupid business almost got you  _ killed _ , Arthur,”

“Well, them bounty hunters was callin’ my name along with yours,” Arthur responded, trying to keep his voice and demeanor as casual as possible. He resumed the examining of the bodies, focusing more on ammo and valuables this time, even though Arthur really didn’t need either. He rubbed at the area behind his ears — sounds weren’t as muffled now, but they ached annoyingly; they weren’t bleeding, so he figured he was fine.

“I think my brother hired them,” She sighed, pulling out a piece of rolling paper and the tiny bottle of green stuff he’d spotted on the train. It wasn’t a liquid, however, and she tapped out what looked like some kind of ground-up herb — tobacco, probably — and deftly rolled it within the paper. “Got any matches you can spare?”

He always kept matches on him alongside a piece of flint; Hosea had made sure of it, always prepping Arthur for those inevitable moments when he wandered too far from civilization and needed to fend for himself. He struck the match on the end of his boot, Robin moving forward to light the end of the makeshift cigarette. The smoke wasn’t that of tobacco, though, smelling like an odd flower.

He eyed her skeptically, watching as she took long drags from the smoke. “Ain’t you…  _ not _ supposed to do that with your lungs?”

She chuckled. “It’s hyssop,”

“How many of them languages do you speak, woman?” He’d phrased and spoken it as a joke, but honestly, Arthur was baffled by how many words a single person could know; Arthur hardly knew  _ one _ language, and yet there were people out there knowing three?

She laughed around the smoke in her mouth. “It’s the name of the herb — you’ve probably seen it around — it actually  _ helps _ with the lungs,” She didn’t use it long, taking a long breath before waving it out, dropping and stomping it out on the grass. He felt that subtle part of him that liked a good smoke every once and a while wonder for a moment, questioning the taste of the smoke on his tongue.

A thought occurred to him, and he was surprised it took so long for it to come to mind. “The hell are the horses?”

Arthur whistled, opting to call for Aegean with her name as well. He knew those men were long gone, and they wouldn’t have risked coming up here right after with how low their numbers had gotten. So he didn’t feel a risk in shouting for his horse, and he was glad he did so, Aegean’s blue-gray coat appearing amongst the trees. He was pleased to see Armadillo’s speckled coat alongside her, following the other horse as if  _ she _ were his rider, not Robin. Arthur felt relief whittle it’s way into his chest upon seeing that neither of them appeared harmed — spooked, yes, but nothing a bit of doting and some peppermints couldn’t solve.

“You’re a good girl,” He ran a hand along her neck, patting her to ward off the lingering panic. Robin was already mounting and he caught the amused smirk on her face. He didn’t have his beard anymore, so he wasn’t sure how visible the flush on his face was, so he turned away slightly under the excuse of repositioning his hat.

He climbed into the saddle, satisfied with Aegean’s demeanor, who was no longer shifting anxiously on her hooves. Robin had assumed that neutral look on her face, an unreadable expression that Arthur had found himself getting better at picking apart. “You alright?”

She sighed, answering honestly — it seemed she only ever did. “It feels like cat and mouse, this…  _ thing _ with my brother,”

Arthur wasn’t sure how lightly he needed to tiptoe around this topic, so he was somewhat hesitant asking further. “What do you want with him?”

“I wanna kill him,” She said simply,  _ too _ simply, words tainted in a solemness that made Arthur feel a bit heavy. “He killed my other brother — Raymund was his  _ twin _ . Identical down to the last freckle,”

“Shit,”

“They botched a job, botched it  _ badly _ , and Rodrigo always had a tendency to get angry,” She ran a hand down her face, groaning. “Like me…”

“You ain’t your brother, Robin,” Arthur had a semblance of understanding; he struggled with his internal demons more than he cared to admit, caught in this battle between the man he was and the man he wanted to become. It was different, but he understood nonetheless.

“I know, really, I do,” She sighed. “He killed him. Shot him right through the face. Pretty sure that was the moment he broke. He was always unstable, but not in a…  _ violent _ way, I don’t even know,”

“Erratic?” Arthur said, knowing people who were unpredictable in a way that was outside of anyone’s control. It seemed to hit the mark somewhat because she nodded.

“Yeah. I think he shot a part of himself when he killed Raymund — something about killing someone who looked, sounded, even  _ moved _ the same way as you,” She shook her head, as if shaking the thoughts away. “We better get out of here,”

Damn, they really did. The explosion would’ve been enough to garner unwanted attention, but a shootout on top of that? They should’ve been miles away from here already. Arthur nodded, urging Aegean forward before ushering into a faster pace, carefully navigating the trees. As soon as a road was underfoot, Arthur spurred Aegean entirely, who was happy to transition into a gallop; Arthur hadn’t had a horse that was so eager to  _ run _ before.

“Camp?” Arthur asked, Robin keeping pace beside him. Her Turkoman seemed more than satisfied with the pace, his endurance capable of it, and Arthur encouraged Aegean to go a tad bit faster. He caught the hesitation in her expression, the way she didn’t answer immediately, but eventually, she agreed. 


	7. Horseshoe Overlook [7] | The Sheep and the Goats ~ A Strange Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a good thing sheep are so dumb; Arthur never liked Valentine much, anyways.

Arthur didn’t stay at camp for long, even though his body was screaming for sleep. He lingered for a bit, making sure Robin wasn’t going to be bothered by anyone. He talked to Dutch about the robbery for a couple fleeting seconds, pointedly leaving out his escapade with Robin afterwards, knowing he’d probably only get mad at her for “almost getting his boy killed.” Dutch never worried about Arthur returning to camp alright, but that didn’t stop him from scolding him whenever he landed himself in situations that probably should’ve killed him; Arthur managed to have both the worst and best luck in that regard. Still, he stuck around for less than half an hour, checking in with everyone and doing his rounds. During that time, he debated heavily over whether or not he was up for the unhealthy tasks of helping Mary. 

Arthur always got  _ stupid _ whenever she was involved, the thought of her bringing back that foolishness from back when he was hardly out of his teenage years. He’d fallen for her in a way he’d never fall for someone else, and yet… he was used. God, he knew he was used, maybe he still is. Mary might’ve cared for him, but she didn’t hesitate to adapt to a new life without him in it, erasing him from her past, devoting herself to that Linton fellow her father had set her up with. She’d dismissed him, left him to rot in his heartbreak while she flourished with the help of a wealthy husband at her side.

He should’ve listened to Grimshaw, because his heart was heavy when he came back to camp the next day. It must’ve been obvious, because Susan had made her way over to him, scolding him in a familiar manner that held a weird sort of comfort in it. He ended up sulking for a while, writing his thoughts in his journal until it hurt too much to even do that. But he found that, while helping her and Jamie had given him some kind of respute, he felt more lonely than ever. He hadn’t actually let her go, some part of him hanging onto her in the back of his chest for years, never quite permitting him to care that way towards anyone ever again. She really  _ had _ broken his heart and now he was left haphazardly picking up the pieces; she’d made him think he could be something other than a lowly outlaw, a grizzled enforcer, a man with blood on his hands who didn’t even care. But he saw the way she’d looked at him, searching for that man within him, eyeing the gun on his hip; she’d wanted that outlaw for the sole purpose of getting her brother back, and she’d received it. Was that all he was good for?

He wanted to talk to Robin, to someone who would listen and not judge, but she hadn’t been in camp when he returned. He’d asked Hosea, who was at his familiar spot at the table with a book in his hands, leaning dangerously on the back legs of the chair as he read. The older man had said she’d left for Valentine to get some supplies — “Said she'd be back within the hour” — and Arthur didn’t want to look desperate going off and riding after her. He ended up going to the overhang at the end of camp, feeling the eyes that he knew were Hosea’s and Grimshaw’s watching him hawk-like, taking out his journal and sketching the Dakota river twisting through the land in front of him. Arthur found himself wondering about things he hadn’t wondered about in a while: the way he felt like a piece in some bigger game he had no say in; whether the man he was becoming deserved to be happy; if he was fading away in the cruelty this world always sent his way. It made his chest heavy, and he dove into the drawing, hoping to lose himself in the tiny details and the sound of graphite on paper.

That cloud of distantness was pushed away by the sound of someone approaching, boots snapping the twigs that had fallen from the tree branches above him. He half expected Hosea to sit beside him on that log, maybe Mary-Beth, who had always been too good at reading people. But it was Robin who sat beside him, perhaps a bit closer than Arthur would’ve expected her to.

“Hosea send you over?” Arthur asked, his drawing reaching the point where he couldn’t add anything more to it. But he kept tracing over the lines, needing to do something with his hands.

She laughed softly, the sound like a cooling breeze on hot summer days like the ones they were in the midst of now. “I was gonna come over anyways, just so you know,”

He hummed, questioning whether he actually wanted to talk to someone, even if that someone was Robin. He liked talking to her, but Arthur didn’t know how to talk about things like this — things that made his chest ache and his mind full of heavy thoughts. He doubted he could put them into words, let alone create sentences to communicate with another. But he needed to, so he tucked his pencil between the pages and returned his journal to his satchel, clutching his hands in front of him while he leaned forward.

“There… was this woman, who I loved way too long ago,” Arthur didn’t like how slowly the words were coming to his lips, the way they lacked their usual certainty. It made him feel ashamed, how  _ sensitive _ he was being, but Robin was looking at him with considerate eyes that made him feel less bad about it. “I was young, foolish, maybe even a bit desperate, and I fell for her.

“She knew what I was. Maybe she don’t care, maybe she ignored it, I ain’t got a clue. But she made me feel, I don’t know,  _ decent _ for once in my life. I weren’t a criminal, weren’t some man with bloodied hands, just a man who was cared for by a woman who was too good for me. Wanted to marry her — got her a ring, aint one I stole, neither — but her daddy weren’t pleased. Married her off, made sure I knew I weren’t good enough for his daughter, and she didn’t even try to defend me,” Arthur spared a glance Robin’s way, taking in the way she was looking at him, and a humorless laugh escaped him. “You probably think I’m brainless, fallin’ for a woman who I  _ knew _ I couldn’t have,”

“No, not at all,” Arthur wasn’t sure what he was expecting to hear nor what he wanted her to say, but her words were reassuring, even though he didn’t want them to be. “We all do foolish things when we’re young,”

Arthur scoffed, following it up with a sigh as his hands started working at the cuffs of his shirt. “Well, I’m  _ still _ foolish. She sent a letter shortly after we set up camp, somethin’ about needin’ my help, and I went at her beck and call like the damn lapdog she made me into,” His voice rose a bit, that anger towards her that he hadn’t been able to confront rising to the surface. He pushed his hand into his forehead, feeling a headache forming. “Turns out her husband died, father’s a certified asshole now, brother runnin’ off — made me go fetch him, and I  _ did _ . Took ‘em to the station, and she said… well, that I’d never change,”

It hurt more than Arthur cared to admit. It hurt because Arthur  _ was _ trying to change, trying to force back that cruelness inside him, trying not to shut his eyes and get overwhelmed by regret. Her words had been a confirmation of something he didn’t want to hear; Arthur’s too lost in the man others want him to be.

“Do you want to change, Arthur?”

He did, really, he did. He didn’t like the man who looked back in the mirror, knew that man was needed now but he didn’t want him to stick around permanently. But something held his back — maybe it was Mary, maybe it was the gang, maybe it was  _ himself _ — and it was driving him crazy. So he turned and locked eyes with her, Robin devoid of the shame he was expecting, the disappointment Grimshaw had sent his way and the pity Hosea had been trying to hide.

“Yeah, I think I do,”

He’d never said it before, not really, and he felt something in his chest break as the words escaped him. It didn’t feel bad, but it felt odd. It was like he realized something, accepted a part of him that had been hidden for a while. It was a small part of him — it could easily fall through his fingers and he lost forever — but it was  _ there _ .

“So what’s stopping you?”

“I don’t know,” He looked away, feeling dumb for not having an answer. His eyes drifted to the river below, watching the currents and the deer drinking from the shoreline.

“You’re thinking about this too hard, Arthur,” He eyed her curiously, and she continued. “You want to change? Then do what you think is right,”

“I reckon I ain’t entirely sure what’s right,” Arthur admitted, watching the deer scatter when a man riding a sturdy Appaloosa with a caramel-colored coat got too close.

“Yeah? Then don’t do what’s  _ wrong _ ,”

“Ah, hell,” Arthur shook his head, chuckling in bewilderment. He took his hat off, running a hand through his hair, feeling some of the knots in it and wondering if he should head into Valentine and get a cut. “You make it sound easy,”

She gave him a small smile. “Isn’t it? You’ve seen plenty of the bad to know when it’s not, so stop thinking about it so hard,”

He couldn’t resist the quib. “Don’t do much thinkin’, do you?”

She rolled her eyes, nudging him with her elbow. The action made the remnants of his despondence fade away, replacing it with the beginnings of something mirroring enjoyment. They sat in silence there for a while, the camp bustling behind them; John and Abigail trying to bicker quietly and failing, Sean messing around with Lenny and making the pair laugh, Uncle snoring even though it was almost noon. Arthur relished in the normalcy, the simplicity of camp rotating on its axis, but he questioned how long it was going to last; Dutch had plans, but they hadn’t been going right lately, and he just hoped it wouldn’t shatter the peace that had descended upon the gang — a semblance of it, anyways.

Arthur has been sitting down too long, lazing about when he had business to attend to; it was only a matter of time before he got scolded for it. Returning his old gambler’s hat to his head, he rose to his feet. “Gotta head into Valentine, John’s waiting for me,”

“Oh yeah, he said he was gonna work something out over there,” She grit her teeth. “How long has he been waiting…?”

Arthur chuckled. “Too long — wanna tag along?” 

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“You make fine company,” If she raised her eyebrow any further it would disappear into her hairline, so Arthur reluctantly admitted, “I ain’t run a job with  _ just _ John in a while, and, um,”

“Sure, Arthur,” She seemed to understand, Arthur offering her a hand and pulling her to her feet. “Gotta give something to Sadie, so I’ll meet you by the horses,”

“Alright,”

* * *

They found John by the livestock pens to the south of the town, leaning against some crates beneath the shade of an overhang. He had his hands resting on his gun belt, shoulders hunched down slightly, assuming the lazed posture of someone without a worry in the world. Arthur knew him better than that, because if there was one thing John did perfectly, it was worrying about everything and anything — especially things he didn’t need to bother himself with.

“So… feelin’ better?” Arthur asked as he approached, Robin nudged him in warning, giving him a patronizing nod not unlike the ones Hosea often sent him. “How’s the scar?”

It was still red, probably still hurt, but Grimshaw had done the courtesy of taking the stitches out. It was healing cleanly and still showed no signs of infection, which was more than they could ask for. “I heal pretty fast,”

“Lucky you,”

John turned and looked at him, eyes moving over to Robin and giving her a nod. Robin and John appeared to be getting along well, which wasn’t surprisingly on Robin’s part and somewhat abnormal on John’s. The younger man had always proven himself to be rather socially awkward, never quite picking up on cues, distinctly lacking the common manners Hosea and Dutch had tried to teach him back when he was a squirmy little beanpole. How he’d managed to snatch such a decent woman such as Abigail, Arthur had no idea, but their bickering (and their ability to make up as if nothing had happened) was still a reminder that John was not good with people.

“So, you just lazin’ about or…” Arthur gestured to John’s loose posture, knowing Robin was probably rolling her eyes. “You got any leads?”

“Got something,” John pushed himself off the crates before he pointed at the pen of sheep a distance away from them. “You see them?”

Arthur was curious now, if not a bit confused. “Sure,” He couldn’t keep the joke from slipping out, but he meant it in  _ general _ humor, not in the petty teasing he’d been trying not to throw John’s way. “What, you see yourself as a shepherd now?”

John gave one of those taunting smirks that Arthur used to be on the receiving end constantly. “Maybe,” He gestured for the pair to follow. “Come on,”

Robin whistled for her horse, Arthur doing the same, except she had to swing her arm out and catch Armadillo’s reins when he came barreling in too fast. Arthur huffed a breath in humor at the sight before following John, leading Aegean beside him. “Well where exactly are we goin’?”

“Collect something…” He glanced at Arthur and Robin, checking to make sure they were following. Satisfied, he continued. “Help us get some sheep,”

Arthur felt the annoyance seeping in and he huffed. He stumbled a tiny bit when something hit the side of his boot, and he whirled around to see Robin shaking her head in warning at him. She spoke quietly so only he could hear. “Arthur…”

He grimaced, feeling almost a physical reaction at resisting the urge — no, the  _ need _ — to say something unnecessarily tantalizing to John. But he kept his mouth shut, following the man when he beckoned them forward. Arthur and John used to tease each other all the time, no real malaise or ill-intent within any of it, but it had started to get more legitimate after the younger man had left. Arthur wasn’t sure if he was teasing John to get those amicable responses back, like when they were younger, or to hurt the man in a way only his words could.

“That train job was a start,” John said from in front of them, waving his hand as he talked. “But we need more money… ‘Til we can get back to Blackwater and collect,”

“Now, I’m not entirely sure what you boys did down there,” Robin said. “But you know they’re calling it the ‘Blackwater Massacre,’ right?”

“Too much heat down there, John,” Arthur replied. He was just as irked about leaving all that money down there — money that would set the gang up with more than enough to get the hell out of the country — but he wasn’t suicidal. “We try to collect that money anytime soon, it’ll come with a noose,”

It didn’t phase John. “I was worried you’d say that. Dutch says that we—“

Arthur interrupted him. “Dutch says a lot. Now, that’s his gift… sayin’ things,”

John’s voice had taken up a challenging tone, not entirely defensive but not quite amicable, either. “Oh yeah? What do you mean by that?”

He had to make a conscious effort to keep his voice steady, to not allow himself to go off on the man. There was a tension blossoming between them that Arthur had gotten too familiar with, but instead of leaning into it like he usually did, he tried to lean out for a change. “I was the prize pony once, now I’m the workhorse. Listen. Dutch is… but… but, well,” He sighed. “You was at that thing in Blackwater, and we already seen Pinkertons here,”

John was listening, keeping quiet, his expression unreadable. The situation had been set up for Arthur to start snapping at him, and he didn’t have a doubt that John was surprised that the man hadn’t started going off. Maybe it was the looming threat of Robin kicking his ankle if he got too mean, or maybe it was that part of him wanting to fix things.

“New century’s comin’. This life, this  _ way _ ? Well, we’re the last, I reckon…” He pretended not to know John was looking at him intently. “And we ain’t long for it,”

It took a second for John to answer, and his voice had dropped that blossoming hostility. “Then that’s the way it goes, I guess,”

“For me, yes,” He’d mumbled it quiet enough so that John couldn’t hear, but Robin was closer, and she turned to look at him with a pensive gaze. He merely shrugged, not entirely certain where the words had come from, but he knew they weren’t going to be dismissed by her easily. Not too keen on entering another vulnerable conversation, Arthur asked, “So where are we goin’?”

Join gestured at the sheriff's office, pointing to the hitching post in front of it. “Tether the horses over there and I’ll meet you across the street,”

“I already don’t like where this is goin’...”

Robin scoffed from beside him, tying Armadillo to the hitching post alongside Aegean. The pair had developed something of a friendship — if horses even did that — and Armadillo didn’t seem antsy around the other horse as much. Robin hadn’t been lying when she said the Turkoman was an asshole; he was something of a menace to the other horses in camp, but he liked Kieran enough, who seemed to use any opportunity to disappear amongst them. He saw how the boy cared for the animals, and he remembered him saying he was essentially the stable boy back with the O’Driscolls. Nobody had told him that’s what he’d be doing with them, but he’d fallen into the task without anyone asking him. Arthur didn’t meet people who treated horses like he did; maybe there was a conversation to be had there.

Robin was eyeing him with a tiny smirk on her face, arms crossed and openly staring at him in a way that made Arthur feel like he had something stuck to his face. “What?”

“Nothing,” She shrugged, the smirk saying  _ anything  _ but nothing. “C’mon,”

John was leaning against the wall of the gunsmith, and he said once they got closer, “I know you got one, Robin — but Arthur, can you head in and pick up a sniper rifle?” Arthur gave the man a puzzled look. “I’ll explain later,”

Arthur went to open the door, but Robin cut in front of him, holding up a hand to stop him. “I’ll get the rifle,”

He gave her a confused look, with a bit of suspicion, too. But he didn’t stop her, moving out of the way so she could enter. John wore an expression of similar surprise, but didn’t make any moves to stop her. So Arthur stood there, hearing the gunsmith greet Robin with a familiarity that signaled some kind of post-acquaintance relationship, feeling that weird awkwardness blossom between him and John. He kept his hands from fiddling with the ends of his jacket, needing to do something to escape the heaviness, but Robin was out in less than a minute.

She emerged with a polished Rolling-Block Rifle in her hands, fresh scope attached to the top and the gun looking newer than any Arthur had seen before. She transferred it into his hands, the polish feeling soft on his calloused fingertips. “Fresh stock — don’t worry about the payment, that’s handled,”

“You blackmail him or something?” John asked, getting a laugh in return.

“Nope. Sometimes it pays off to be  _ nice _ to people,” When John merely shrugged, Robin laughed. “And I stole a crate of pump-actions for him, so there’s  _ that _ , as well,”

Arthur laughed deep in his chest, catching an amused smile on John’s face before the younger man whistled for his horse. Robin went over and collected Aegean and Armadillo, the latter nudging into Robin’s side in search of treats; if horses could have a lack of manners, that gelding most certainly did. Arthur shouldered the new rifle as he mounted, following John as he spurred Old Boy forward, heading towards the south of town.

“Hey, John,” Robin asked, the man waving a hand in front of them to show he was listening. “Mister Dalton said he’d be fine selling to you again if you pay for that pistol,”

“Who’s Mister Dalton?”

“Um, the gunsmith?”

A scoff clawed out of Arthur’s throat; no wonder he had stayed outside. “You had a run-in with that feller?”

“We ain’t on the best of terms,”

Arthur merely shook his head and dismissed it, but he quickly found something else to throw John’s way. “Why are you being so cagey about all this? Always playing some goddamn game…” Christ,  _ why _ did he say that? He really didn’t need to, but that little voice in his head urging him to test the man swooped in when he least expected it. Robin sighed quietly beside him, the gesture making Arthur feel a bubble of guilt in his chest, but John’s response quickly replaced it with irritation.

“Me? I ain’t the one taking Jack on fishing trips,” His voice was pitched with growing anger, John and Arthur both gearing up for a verbal brawl.

Arthur scoffed. “No, you ain’t,” He was settled into it now, the part of him knowing it was petty and unwarranted taking full control. “If you say the boy ain’t yours, what’s the difference? You’ll probably only run off again,”

It was successful — Arthur struck a nerve. “Why are you so interested in  _ my _ life? Ain’t you got one of your own?”

Arthur was seconds away from throwing something unsightly back when Robin interrupted him; he was so absorbed in the argument that he’d momentarily forgotten that she was forced to be in the midst of it, too. “Is this  _ really _ what y’all need right now?”

“This ain’t your business, Robin—“ John began but she quickly overlapped him.

“No, but it  _ becomes _ my business when you squabble through my ears like there’s a goddamn tube through my brain. Now,” She sighed, Arthur feeling a wave of guilt overwhelm. “I’m  _ all _ about playing peacekeeper, but Christ there’s no reasoning between children — unless you two know how to  _ discuss _ like adults do?”

Arthur sighed, running a hand down his face and choosing to ignore the spiraling frustration in his stomach. “John, for the love of god, will you tell us what got going here before I turn around and hit the breeze?”

He couldn’t see John’s face, and maybe he didn’t want to, but John answered quickly enough that it was clear he still wanted to go through with the job alongside him; he could be angry at Arthur later, but there’s work that needs doing now. “There’s a herd of sheep coming down for auction from Emerald Ranch. Folk in town were saying that the owner’s trying to stamp out every farm from here to Annesburg,”

Arthur glanced at Robin, who merely shook her head knowingly. “Yeah I know that place,”

There was a period of silence between them as they rode further, heading deeper into the Heartlands to the southeast of Valentine. Arthur had rode down this way dozens of times in the recent weeks, wandering, hunting, collecting, and various other excuses to stay out of camp and meander through his thoughts; he’d met that odd woman looking for bones around here, promised to send her the location of any others he’d stumbled upon.

Then John was leading them off the main road, saying, “Let’s head up to the ridge up there, get a proper view,” They followed him further as he went deeper into the plan, which was pretty sound — simple, but solid. “So I’m thinking that the herd’ll make it to auction alright, but, a couple new ranch hands’ll be collecting on the sale,”

“Are they expecting  _ certain _ people?” Robin asked, bringing forth a concern Arthur had also been working away at.

“Don’t think so — doubt the town will care to notice too much,” John responded, and while Arthur wasn’t entirely satisfied, it made sense. Valentine was a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, not large enough to really amount to anything, and people didn’t care about its “legitimacy” too much as a result. 

“Why we need this rifle you couldn’t buy yourself?” Arthur asked, easing Aegean off the path and towards the ledge John was settling on.

John ignored the hint of passive-aggressiveness — maybe he didn’t notice it. “Reckon we shouldn’t get too close, least not till we know what we’re dealing with,”

“Nice view,” Robin wasn’t kidding, the view was nice. Maybe under different circumstances he’d sketch the landscape — the outline of Valentine in the distance. It was a nice day, too, with a clear sky and a warm breeze. He found himself getting distracted in the simplicity of it, but the sound of Robin collecting her own rifle and John dismounting in front of him snatched him away.

John took out his binoculars while Robin lowered into a crouch, using the scope on her rifle to scan the landscape. The rifle felt balanced in his hands, optimized for medium-range combat. She’d selected a shorter scope, and Arthur was grateful for that; his movements were far too large to warrant the precision of such a strong zoom. Regardless, Arthur peered down the scope, spotting movement amongst the grass.

“Okay, I think that’s them down there,” John said.

Arthur hummed in agreement. “So what now?”

There were three men, each one mounted and armed, following the sheep closely. Arthur didn’t know a damn thing about sheep, but they all looked as healthy as he supposed they’d be, wool a bright white and all moving at a steady pace. They were all oblivious to the three “unfavorable” characters peering down at them, looking to steal their job and the subsequent payment; money  _ is _ money, after all.

Everything appeared to be following John’s expectations, the plan set up accordingly. “Put a shot in near them, I reckon they’ll hightail it. They’re only ranch hands. Just, watch the sheep,”

Arthur aimed near the middle man, several feet away from the horse just in case the bullet moved a bit across the distance. The rifle was strong enough that even Arthur’s relaxed posture felt the jerk of it, his shoulder vibrating oddly at the kick. The reaction was immediate, two of the men spurring their horses and fleeing, obviously prioritizing their lives over their potential payment. However, one man stayed. He dismounted his horse, and Arthur could see him draw his pistol, aiming it wildly but ready to go out fighting, at least.

“Looks like one of them don’t scare too easy,” Arthur said, watching the man stumble around in circles as he searched for the source of the bullet.

“Put another shot in close, he’ll get the message,” John responded.

Arthur shot again, inching the rifle as close to the man as he dared, still not certain in his ability to shoot from such a long range. It landed a couple feet away from the man’s boot, making him stumble away from the burst of dust as the bullet broke ground. Arthur had to admire the man’s bravery; he remained where he was, pistol aimed and Arthur could hear him yelling out threats of some kind.

John scoffed. “Stubborn bastard,”

“I’ll get him to move,” Robin said, and Arthur couldn’t help himself asking.

“Don’t… actually shoot him?”

She chuckled softly. “I won’t,”

She was gazing down the scope of the rifle, movements small enough to be missed as she lined up a shot. The two men waited for a moment while she aimed, and then the sharp sound of a high-powered rifle shot snapped through the air. Arthur couldn’t help but be impressed when he saw the man’s hat launch off his head, who stumbled to the ground as a bullet got way too close for comfort. If that wouldn’t make him move, Arthur had no doubt a bullet through the skull would’ve been next. He was scrambling to mount his horse, the sheep entirely forgotten — who had luckily stayed in their circle despite the noise — and was fleeing into the Heartlands within seconds.

“Huh,” Arthur gave her an impressed look as she lowered the rifle.

John chuckled. “Well,  _ that _ oughta do it,” He gave the herd one last look-over through his binoculars before turning towards the horses. “Alright, let’s go round ‘em up,”

“You ever work on a ranch, you two?” Arthur asked as he mounted Aegean, giving her a pat before nudging her forward.

“No,”

“Does robbing one count?”

Arthur scoffed. “Well, can’t be that hard,”

They rode down towards the sheep, having to take a slight detour when the incline proved too steep for the horses. The sheep stayed where they were, none quite confident enough to move anywhere from the nice buffet of dried grasses they stood upon. Unfortunately, some had scattered; sheep were dumb as all hell, in Arthur’s experience, and he hoped that fact would make it easier to recollect the ones that had drifted away.

Arthur had some experience herding animals — if “experience” meant about three days total across his entire life. Once, back when the gang was real small, Hosea had concocted a plan that involved some “undercover” work on a ranch belonging to a rich family; it didn’t last a day, as the father of the family quickly recognized Dutch from the posters and they’d had to split. There’d been another time when Arthur had encountered a man at a saloon in Wyoming who’d offered him a quick payment if he helped transport some animals. It was honest work, for honest money, with no consequence, and Arthur figured it was worth the couple hours of time it would take.

So, Arthur knew what to do, and it  _ was _ simple. All you needed was a horse who listened and the patience to shout at mindless animals when they inevitably wandered off. The only real concern was trampling one of the poor things if they slowed down.

“They’re pretty scattered. Let’s get them rounded up,” John called, Arthur splitting off from the group and leading Aegean towards the ones who’d drifted farthest from the herd. Robin continued straight while John headed in the opposite direction.

Luckily, Aegean had proven to be a very agile horse, maneuvering between the rocks and branches in the ground all while dodging the sheep that went running around her hooves. Arthur didn’t know much about livestock, but the sheep looked to be of higher quality than the normal ones he passed while on the road; still dumb, though. He had to shout at a couple of them, even moving his horse closer than he’d have liked to get the sheep going. Robin kept to the side of the herd, shooing the ones who felt like steering too far in one direction. Armadillo didn’t seem too fond of the sheep but listened to Robin’s guidance anyways; Arthur found himself thinking about the horse’s namesake and wondering if it applied to sheep as well.

They worked to round them up, first, circling those who had strayed away back into the herd. Once it appeared they all had been rejoined the huddle, John shouted out confirmation and beckoned them towards town. It became apparent that John definitely didn’t know too much about herding, keeping Old Boy too close to the sheep and making them drift away and into the directions they weren’t supposed to be going; Arthur didn’t want to be out here all day.

“You know what… Marston!” Arthur called, the man in question using his hand to shield the sun from his eyes to face Arthur. “Why don’t you leave the sheep to me? You ride shank, keep watch for any trouble,”

“I brought you in on this,” Always protesting, John was.

Arthur held back a sigh. “It’ll be quicker this way, trust me. This ain’t the right time for you to be learnin’ how to herd,”

John didn’t keep his sigh as quiet as Arthur did, voicing his displeasure at being told what to do again, but the man didn’t refuse. “Alright. Whatever you say, I’m done arguing,”

“Robin!” He had to shout for her to hear from her position at the front of the herd. “Head into town, make sure they know we’re comin’!” She gave a thumbs-up before spurring her horse and heading into the direction of Valentine.

Herding sheep wasn’t hard at all, but it required patience, and John was not a very patient man — especially when he got put on the back burner. The sheep knew only one thing and that was to move forward. It didn’t matter if it was in the direction of Valentine or into the hooves of John’s horse, the sheep went straight and didn’t stop. It was a miracle none of the things got trampled, and Old Boy wasn’t the most lenient of horses to begin with, and that oaf of a steed nearly stomped on the sheep more times than Arthur was comfortable with. John also wasn’t the best rider, so there was that as well.

Arthur was glad that herding took a degree of focus, because he didn’t want to have to deal with the tension still lingering between them. He needed to keep a watchful eye on each of the sheep, losing even one of them would severely dampen their profits, so John didn’t say or do anything that would’ve distracted from the task. Arthur knew he was being stubborn, allowing that tension to flourish, enabling it to transform into something more harsh. He’d taken Robin’s words to heart, but he found it hard to process them into his behavior. Something had broken between him and John that Arthur wasn’t sure could be repaired — of course, he  _ wanted _ to fix things, but sometimes things change too much between people to ever go back to a time before.

Once they hit a road, the sheep fell into line much easier. The ride towards town consisted of nothing but shouting at sheep, dodging the ones who got lost in the brush, and swerving back around to recollect the stragglers. He was thankful that the pens were located on the edge of the town — he couldn’t imagine the mess that would’ve been wrangling them through the center of town — and that Robin was there with three men ready to usher them the remainder of the way. She waved them down as they approached, Arthur and John dismounting when the farmhands shut the pen gates behind the sheep.

“Fine sheep,” John said, casual, as if he  _ knew _ what fine sheep looked like.

“They’re okay,” A man with a bushy mustache responded monotonously, wearing a blue and red pinstripe rambler jacket with a ledger in his hands.

Arthur noticed the way the man was looking at them, and it made him nervous. “Well, you seen better around here?”

The man sighed softly, the way he narrowed his eyes at John and Arthur making a pit of unease bloom in his stomach. “I’ve seen ones with less…  _ ambiguity _ about their provenance,”

Robin has been leaning against the pen’s fence, arms crossed as she observed the exchange, giving an air of indifference that those who were concerned about “legitimate” business transactions emitted. But Arthur could tell she was growing anxious alongside him, and when she pushed herself off the fence and stared down the man, Arthur’s suspicions were confirmed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The other men behind the ledger-holding man bristled upon Robin’s pointed words, but the man kept his speech in that steady drawl that was beginning to piss Arthur off. “What I mean is… you give me twenty-five percent kick-back, and I won’t say nothing to nobody,”

“Excuse me?” Arthur snapped, the audacity of these men making his fingers twitch.

“Sure, I’ll  _ excuse _ you…” The man remained steadfast. “For twenty-five percent,”

Arthur made his threat clear. “You want me to put another  _ hole _ in your head?”

“Folks  _ swing _ for rustling livestock — twenty-five percent,”

“Fifteen,” John said, ignoring the exasperated look Arthur sent his way.

“Twenty,”

“Eighteen,”

John and the asshole shook hands. “Done,”

Arthur tried not to break the man’s fingers as he shook his hand, ignoring his remark afterwards and needing to make a conscious effort to loosen the tension curling his nerves. Robin didn’t shake any hands, but it was probably because of the men rather than her pointed looks, and he beckoned her forward as the three made their way to horses.

Arthur was still seething as he mounted Aegean, rubbing some of the dirt out of her mane as he worked to toss away that anger. John’s mention of Dutch’s presence at the saloon helped replace that pissed-off feeling in favor of surprise. Robin looked angry, too, and he wondered if those ranchers had given her a tough time before they arrived.

“ _ Eighteen percent _ ? I thought we was doin’ the robbin’ here,” He mumbled grudgingly — he wasn’t the best at math, but even he knew that was a sizable chunk out of their payment. Some part of him knew it wasn’t as much as it could’ve been — the men could’ve threatened more with the blackmail of knowing they were dealing with livestock rustlers — but he still hated that feeling of being forced into something disadvantageous.

“Still good money,” John replied, showing no indication that he was rustled by the encounter.

The irritation lingering within him made a final play before Arthur dismissed it. “Thanks… for all the help with that. Can’t  _ herd _ , can’t  _ swim… _ ”

John groaned. “Give it a rest, will you? We ain’t kids no more,”

“I can’t swim, either, Arthur,” Robin said nonchalantly, Arthur giving her an eye roll before she continued. “I gotta go grab some things from the general store, so I’ll see you boys later?”

“Thanks for your help on this, Robin,” John said as they rode up beside the saloon, dismounting and hitching Old Boy to the post outside.

She waved him off. “I didn’t do anything you two couldn’t have done yourselves,”

“Yeah, well,” John gave him a look that Arthur couldn’t quite pinpoint its intention. “Arthur weren’t lying about you being good company,”

Robin merely laughed, pulling on Armadillo’s reins and leading him towards town. Arthur watched for a second as she went, but John was already stepping towards the doors, the offer of buying him a whiskey pulling Arthur away.

Dutch and Strauss were inside, opting for the smaller saloon in favor of its lower popularity — or maybe on account of Arthur’s still-recent brawl occurring in the better one. It was small, with only a couple of tables, and the windows were old in a way that didn’t allow much light in. But there were a few patrons, a bartender who was keen on serving them, and chairs to be sat in; Arthur didn’t need much to be satisfied.

Dutch looked up as Arthur and John neared, expression one of slight impatience as he spoke. “Where have you been?”

“Workin’,” Arthur replied simply, because it  _ was _ that simple. “Marston’s thing,” 

With the prospect of money arriving soon, Dutch didn’t look as irked; Dutch wasn’t a big fan of waiting, and Strauss didn’t exactly make good company, as bland as a man he was. “Good, and?”

“We’re just waitin’ to get some pay in on some sheep,”

Dutch nodded before gesturing at the man across from him, who looked as mousy as ever. “Leopold, my good friend, as long as you’re here why don’t you and John go make sure there ain’t no funny business,”

“Of course,” Finances, boring as all hell, but Strauss looked eager to go and handle them. John followed somewhat reluctantly behind him, never quite one to really interact with the man. Arthur held back a smirk at how Dutch pounced on the opportunity to get Strauss out of the saloon, and Arthur wondered just how boring their conversation had been and how long Dutch had endured it.

Dutch gestured at the glass across from him. “Drink?”

“Sure,”

Dutch waved down the bartender, who brought over the entire bottle of whatever him and Strauss had been drinking. “Nothing like talking to old Strauss to make you want to blow your own brains out,” Arthur chuckled, picking up the glass of amber liquid and bringing it to his lips — whiskey. “I should have left him where I found him all those years ago, bookish little Austrian fresh off the boat, his eyes out on stalks,”

Arthur sympathized with Dutch, knowing just how mind-numbing Strauss’s voice could get. “Well, I guess the… Dutch van der Linde finishin’ school has some strange graduates,”

Dutch chuckled and raised his glass. “That it does. To your good health,”

Arthur tapped his drink with Dutch’s, wondering when the last time they’d just… sat down and talked had been. “Thank you,”

The whiskey was hot on his tongue, his throat not too fond of it, either. It wasn’t the best quality liquor, that’s for sure, but it was a drink nonetheless. He must’ve made a face because Dutch smirked at him. “I know, I know, ain’t the best alcohol, but I wasn’t sure if the  _ other _ establishment would be fond of having us as patrons,”

Arthur laughed. “You mean me?”

“Yes,  _ you _ ,” He poured himself another glass. “At least we got Miss Rivera out of that whole…  _ debacle _ ,”

“That we did,”

Dutch was in the midst of raising his drink to his mouth when a voice, harsh and unfamiliar, wormed its way from outside and put their conversation on a rude halt. “Van der Linde! Get out here! Get out here  _ now _ !”

Arthur saw that flicker of alarm in his eyes as the glass was returned to the table, but it was gone before Dutch ever acknowledged it, replaced with that hardened resolve Arthur knew well. “What the hell…”

They traded a look, the realization of a dire problem striking both of them. Arthur rose carefully to his feet, keeping his steps quiet as he approached the window; the sight outside wasn’t a good one, but Arthur still couldn’t tell just how bad it was, yet.

The man was round in the way that signaled plenty of access to food and with the fair skin of someone who didn’t go outside much. He wore a spotless suit, a golden pocket watch hung on the buttons in a clear display of wealth, his grayed hair groomed well and meticulously styled. His eyes were bright with anger as he sat atop his horse, which shuffled anxiously below him. There were men around him, rifles raised, obviously there to listen to this man and this man’s orders only. It made Arthur grit his teeth; this man wasn’t of the type they usually dealt with.

“My name is Leviticus Cornwall,”

Shit.

“I am not a man to be messed with by the likes of you,”

They’d robbed his train back in Colter, stealing a rather sizable sum of money’s worth in bonds. Now, Arthur wasn’t familiar with the ways of reputable businessmen nor their affairs, but even he knew that losing that kind of money in a robbery was a significant setback. They’d pulled similar stunts, stolen from similar men, but never had one come searching for them with such vigor and anger like this so-called  _ Leviticus Cornwall _ .

“Get out here, before I have these men and this lovely woman killed!”

It was then that Arthur really started to panic — looked like they had a hostage situation on their hands on top of being cornered in a shitty excuse of a saloon.

Strauss looked ready to collapse, never one for conflict and always hiding behind his ledgers and numbers. He was gripping the man’s arm across his neck like it was a log in the middle of the rapids, the only thing he could hang onto without being swept away and drowning. His glasses were skewed, his woolen jacket crinkled with the signs of a struggle, face as pale as the paper he used for his calculations. Arthur figured that if there was ever a moment Strauss regretted joining the gang, for falling for Dutch’s silver tongue, it was this one. 

John, on the other hand, looked more impatient than terrified — but there was plenty of fear behind the facade of determination. He was struggling still, the gun his captor pressed harshly into his side, perhaps the only place the man could point it without risk of having John being able to reach it. His mouth was pressed in a thin line, eyes narrowed as he peered through the window, trusting Arthur and Dutch a bit too much for a situation such as this; John’s unwavering faith in their father figure held back any fear of the bullet that could be seconds away from going through his head.

Robin must’ve put up a fight, because the blood running from her nose and down her chin was a morbid sight. The man behind her held a hand around both her neck and one pinning her arms behind her back, immobilizing her. Arthur saw that fire in her eyes, the way she was tensed up like a snake waiting to strike, and he had no doubt that the man holding her was the first on her list. She hadn’t been with the gang for long, and she’d already done so much for them; Arthur wouldn’t stand for her being repaid with a bullet to the head.

“What do you think?” Dutch’s voice was steady, like he was asking Arthur whether or not he wanted sugar in his goddamn coffee. Arthur pushed aside that tweak of irritation at Dutch’s inappropriate calmness, but it didn’t help that Cornwall was still shouting out taunts, starting to shift towards insults rather than incentives.

Arthur didn’t know, his brain spiraling into ideas that had and hadn’t worked, into desperate plans that had saved lives and ended some. He worked well under pressure, because he  _ had _ to in this line of work, but something about seeing John and Robin outride with guns to their heads made all his experience vanish.

“Well, I…” Arthur couldn’t keep that nervousness out of his voice, hating the way his voice went unsteady. But he wasn’t one to submit to ideas of worst-case scenarios, so he shoved it harshly aside and got to work. “You start spinnin’ a yarn and… when I think the moment’s right, I’ll make a move,”

He met Dutch’s gaze, watching the way the other man’s eyes swirled with a million thoughts and conclusions, ones that Arthur didn’t have the time or patience to consider alongside him. But he only took a moment to think, mind moving at the rapid speed it always did, before simply saying, “Why not?”

Arthur held back an eye roll when Dutch downed the rest of the alcohol in the bottle, slowly making his way towards the door with the older man. Not trusting the trigger fingers outside, Arthur made sure to crouch below the window just to be careful. He gave Dutch one last look before they exited the saloon, hands held high and palms open in surrender; it made Arthur feel foolish, but he trusted Dutch’s ability to stall more than he trusted the sun to rise in the east and set in the west.

The man holding John forced him onto his knees, forgoing the pistol in favor of placing a knife against the young man’s head at Cornwall’s urging — “Deal with this nonsense,” the man had said. Two enforcers were dismissed, galloping off to do whatever other business Cornwall had going on right now, and Arthur was acutely aware at how empty the streets of Valentine were. His eyes flickered over to Robin, who was watching him and Dutch intently, not a flicker of fear or anything close to it in her eyes; Arthur recognized that look — the look of someone who wasn’t afraid to die.

And then Dutch was off, his voice steady and captivating in the way he was known for, words laced in a calm expression of friendliness that lured people into listening. “Please, gentlemen, this is a terrible mistake. This is a case… of mistaken identity,”

It wasn’t Dutch’s best work, but it was a classic stall, because no one wanted to kill someone under the guise of thinking they were someone they were not. But Arthur wasn’t paying attention to the man’s words anymore. John was the one in the most immediate danger, the knife pressed against the side of his neck and only a light nudge away from going through it. He met the younger man’s eyes, hoping he could see Arthur’s developing plan. They’d let their guard down regarding Strauss, the man too terrified to do anything but tense up and breath rapidly. But Robin’s captor was alert, looking a bit mad at the woman he had pinned against him, and Arthur could tell she’d gotten a good hit in on him before he’d thrown one back; he was hunched over slightly, showing a stiffness that was only ever a result of injury, so Arthur knew Robin could overpower the man with that fact alone — but he was larger than she was, and it was worrying in the case of a contact fight.

Dutch was going on about messiahs now, for some reason. Arthur saw the way John was eagerly looking at him, and Arthur knew for certain that the man was ready for his cue just as much as Dutch was. It was then that Arthur was glad he was so quick on the draw, and as he let his fingers inch forward towards the grip of his revolver, Arthur could only hope Lady Luck was on his side today.

At Arthur’s gunshot, the head of the man holding John swinging back at the bullet flying through it, and Robin’s shout before she rammed an elbow into the man’s leg, everything erupted in chaos. John wasted no time grabbing the gun from the falling man’s holster, swinging around and shooting the man holding Strauss before anyone else had even gotten a bullet out. Arthur shot the two men scrambling for cover behind him, landing fatal shots to their heads before they could make a few steps. Robin had tackled the man to the ground, moving her head to the side so that Dutch could safely shoot the man as he squirmed against her. She snatched the revolver from her captor — now dead from Dutch’s well-aimed bullet — and dove into cover, already shooting as more men came barreling in from the south in wagon-loads.

“Push up, stay with me!” Dutch shouted, voice coming out in fragments between the sounds of gunfire. Arthur ducked behind a stack of hay, the fibers making his arms itch as he leaned into it, hastily reloading his revolver. There were a hell of a lot more than there should’ve been, bullets coming from seemingly every direction. 

He caught sight of Robin transitioning to settle in front of an overturned wagon, the blood smeared across her face in a morbid way, even more unnerving knowing not all of it was her own. Arthur slid in beside her, removing the new rifle from his shoulder and handing it to her. She nodded in thanks before she returned to shooting, her shots as consistent as ever, picking off the men who had appeared on the rooftops and were riding in from a distance.

Dutch moved forward, picking off those who were close as he transitioned into cover, inching them forward towards the center road through town. Strauss was openly panicked now, his accent heavier than ever as he shouted out in terrified bewilderment, “Where are you going? That’s right at them!”

“We don’t  _ run _ , Mister Strauss!” Dutch shouted back, and as soon as the words left his mouth, matters got even worse.

Looks like Strauss  _ really _ wasn’t going to run, because Arthur saw from the corner of his vision when the Austrian stumbled, red blossoming over his thigh as a bullet entered it. The man fell entirely, and Arthur felt himself curse when John shouted, “They hit Strauss!”

Robin rushed forward, ducking at the bullets flying past her. Arthur wanted to shout at her to go back to cover but the woman was at Strauss’s side instantly, maneuvering the man’s arm so it was draped across her shoulders. John grabbed his opposite side, helping Robin drag the man to the back of a wagon parked outside of the gunsmith. Arthur focused on shooting, dropping men only for them to seemingly replace themselves in seconds. 

John and Robin hauled Strauss into the back of the wagon, Robin hopping in beside him and immediately getting to work, pushing down on the wound with her hands and making the Austrian curse heavily.

“Get behind the wagon as we push, Arthur. You can use it as cover!” Dutch shouted his way, Arthur falling in behind it and shooting at the men attempting to flank them. It seemed Cornwall had invested in quantity over quality, but even so it was making their odds look dangerously low. But Arthur kept shooting, falling into a rhythm while he trailed behind the wagon, focusing in the way that fueled off fear and transformed it into focus.

Strauss was yelling, clawing at his leg and trying to push Robin’s hands away. “ _ Sheisse _ , I’m going to die!”

“Stop being  _ dramatic _ you’re gonna be fine!” Robin snapped, slapping Strauss’s hands away and leaning forward on his thigh, making the Austrian splutter out in pain.

The numbers were dwindling as Arthur kept shooting, which merely meant that the seemingly hundreds of men weren’t being replaced. They continued moving forward, Arthur’s hands starting to feel tingly as the recoil started to piss off his nerves. He had to keep his focus, Dutch and John too busy pushing the wagon to shoot, Robin busy dealing with Strauss, who probably never even held a gun in his life — he was too busy shouting out in pain and panic to be of much use anyways. But they were passing the saloon, inching towards the stables where Arthur  _ hoped _ the horses would be.

“This is  _ madness _ !”

Dutch, always relishing in the adrenaline of near-death experiences and looming success, tossed back to Strauss, “You’re on the front line now, Mister Strauss!”

“I can’t do this!” Strauss was deteriorating — mentally, that is, because Robin was constantly trying to make the man shut up with assurances that his leg would be fine — even though their escape was nearing into view. Arthur saw the anxious forms of the horses, seeing Aegean’s blue coat as she shuffled in fear at the combat waging around her. But none of their horses were fleeing, loyal against the fear screaming at their instincts to run.

“Least you’re ain’t pushing this thing!” John snapped, voice tight from the excursion.

“That’s our horses over there! Come on, grab Strauss, Arthur!” Dutch shouted, abandoning the wagon as their horses neared. Arthur made quick work of the men who came running from their right, downing them with two quick shots to their heads. 

Robin climbed off the wagon, taking the rifle from her shoulder and shooting the men who had come riding in on horses. “Grab him, I’ll cover you!”

Arthur nodded, holstering his pistol and making his way to Strauss, who now had a bandage wrapped around his leg that was still bleeding freely, judging by the red splotch cutting through the white. But it was a clear shot, clean and hitting only muscle by the look of it, and Arthur had no doubt Strauss would be fine. 

“Come on, Leopold,” Arthur heaved the man over his shoulder, who groaned loudly at being moved and tossed around like a sack of potatoes. He squirmed on Arthur’s shoulder, making the man spit out impatiently, “You’re fine,”

He was quick to counter that. “I’m  _ not _ fine,”

Dutch shouted something about putting Strauss on the back of John’s horse, so he carried the man towards Old Boy, who had managed to be calmed down to an extent by John. Robin shot at the men who moved to stop them, never missing a shot and making quick work of the lingering remains of Cornwall’s small army. There was an eerie period of quiet after the next gunshot, Arthur becoming so acclimated to the sound of them flying constantly that the sudden lack of it was baffling. But Robin kept her rifle raised as she followed beside Arthur, because there had been too many men for it to just  _ stop _ like this.

Arthur heaved Strauss onto the back of Old Boy, John already mounted, the Austrian looking rather pale but it was hard to tell if it was from the stress or the blood loss. Robin had tightly wrapped his thigh and the red stain hadn’t grown any larger, so Arthur figured it was safe to say the man was safely out of the woods. Old Boy shifted anxiously below the two men, ready to get moving and away from the harsh scent of dozens of dead bodies.

“You make sure nobody’s following us,” Dutch said, looking Arthur sharp in the eyes before staring at Robin the same way. “Miss Rivera, back him up — we’ll get back to camp, we’re gonna gather the troops and get ‘em to start packing up,”

Arthur still wasn’t sure what Robin thought of Dutch — whether or not she trusted the man — but it seemed Dutch had found a reason to toss aside his uncertainties about the woman and see her as a fellow enforcer. There would be no reason for Robin to help them escape if she wanted them dead, nor any sense in her helping with the jobs if she wished to watch the gang fall, and Dutch appeared to have finally realized that. Regardless, Robin took a second to check over Strauss’s leg one more time before nodding sternly.

Arthur watched as Dutch mounted The Count, who was as steadfast and indifferent as always. “Sure, we can’t stick around after  _ this _ ,” Arthur said, giving Strauss a reassuring tap on his arm, the man nodding profusely in agreement.

Arthur barely a moment to make sure the others were riding off before the gunshots started up again. He grabbed Robin’s arm and pulled her behind the side of a wayward wagon, the replacement men Arthur had been suspecting finally making their appearance. Whoever this Cornwall guy was, exactly, it was clear he was rich enough to fund a small army of competent shooters. Arthur wasn’t one for  _ I told you so _ ’s but he had known that robbing the damn train in Colter had been a mistake, an unnecessary risk that was finally coming to bite them in the ass; they hadn’t even managed to find a buyer for those goddamn bonds, either.

Robin was already throwing herself into the action, picking off a man on the rooftop of the hotel who would’ve had a clear shot at the pair of them. Arthur followed suit, picking off those at closer ranges while Robin sniped anyone who Arthur couldn’t hit. It was an odd, unspoken agreement that they’d somehow both come into knowing about, instinctively falling into the pattern like they’d worked together for months, not days. Arthur didn’t have to worry about watching his back alongside someone else’s, because he knew Robin was keeping an eye on him while he kept an eye on her. It was satisfying, how smoothly the partnership worked, and Arthur found he was glad to have her by his side while he shot up a town that he really hadn’t liked anyway.

It seemed things were ending in a lot of town shootouts lately, and Arthur wasn’t a big fan of it.

“Shoot as many as you can and then let’s get the hell outta here!” Arthur said, Robin giving an affirming sound before she whistled loudly for her horse, who had fled once the bullets had started up again. Aegean followed alongside Armadillo, who was making his displeasure at being called back into the stressful environment well known.

He saw the opportunity appear, the momentary lapse in men that gave them the moment they needed to get to the horses. He shouted her name before running towards them, listening to her curse when a bullet nearly lodged itself in her foot, and he swung himself up onto Aegean. Robin mounted quickly before spurring Armadillo, the Turkoman bursting forward in a surge of speed that Arthur quickly followed.

The last thing Arthur wanted was to lead Cornwall’s men straight to camp, especially when it seemed they weren’t keen on letting them escape. He headed North, towards the forests, where the trees would make it harder to shoot and hopefully they could vanish within them. He could hear Aegean panting as he pushed her harder than he would’ve liked, but it was life or death, and she wouldn’t hold a grudge if she got some extra sugar cubes out of the whole ordeal. Robin fell in beside him, Armadillo making his breed’s knack for racing clear by the way he showed little exertion from the rush.

He heard the men shouting far behind them as they broke into the forest, aspen and pine trees throwing shade across the road in front of them. He waved at Robin and they ventured off the road, knowing it would be far easier to catch them if they predictably followed the easier pathways forward. Luckily they were still in the flatter regions of Cumberland Forest, where the horses could still keep up their fast speed without fear of being thrown forward off a cliff. But they kept going deeper into the trees, even after nothing but the sounds of wildlife occupied the air. Feeling the heaviness of adrenaline’s departure, Arthur eased Aegean to a stop.

The pair stayed there for a moment, listening to the forest in case the sound of approaching hoofbeats or shouting men interrupted them. But as the seconds ticked by and neither sound came, Arthur allowed himself to relax — well, not entirely, but at least he returned his revolver to its holster.

Robin leaned forward and transferred the rifle back to Arthur, who hadn’t even thought about it; the gun was so natural in her hands that it felt weird returning it to his own. He chuckled, feeling that giddiness of escaping what had looked like certain death for a while, before he leaned forward and gave Aegean some appreciative pats.

“Bastard broke my nose, I think,” He looked up to see her wiping at the blood that had smeared across her face, a cut on the bridge of her nose revealing itself. Arthur winced in sympathy — he’d been punched in the face plenty of times to know a broken nose was an irritating injury — but hers didn’t seem too bad.

Arthur brought his hat to his chest, sweeping a hand through his hair and sighing. “Christ, this is a mess,” Arthur looked at Robin, watching as she poured some alcohol onto a cloth and pressing it into her nose. He allowed that guilt to blossom within him, making his chest heavy. “Brought  _ you _ into this mess,”

She scoffed, rubbing at the crimson across her cheeks. “My  _ whole life _ is a mess, Morgan, and I’m pretty sure you’re not the reason for it,”

“This… Leviticus feller,” Arthur returned his hat to his head, opting to fiddle at the ends of his shirt cuffs nervously while he spoke. “He knows you now, got you branded with the ‘Van der Linde’ name, even — might start seein’ your face on posters, Robin,”

Surprisingly, that made her laugh. “I already got posters with my face on them down in  _ México _ , Arthur, it was only a matter of time before they started shipping them up this way,” She eyed him pensively; even with the blood on her face and the bruise forming alongside her nose, she really  _ was _ pretty. “Don’t go blaming yourself,”

It was a bit late for that. He’d been the one to ask for Robin to tag along, not because he needed the manpower but because he was too selfish to work with John alone — he hadn’t wanted to confront the tension between them, so he brought Robin as some twisted kind of buffer. And now she was officially branded an associate of Dutch van der Linde, and she had all the troubles that came along with it. It  _ was _ Arthur’s fault — he  _ was _ blaming himself — and he had every right to do so. Robin was too forgiving, unbothered by conflict and always ready to look past people’s mistakes. But she shouldn’t have looked past this one, because it had nearly gotten her killed.

“It might be best if you leave, go runnin’ somewhere that don’t involve us gettin’ you killed—“

She interrupted him. “Do you want me to leave, Arthur?”

“Of course not, but—”

“Then I’m not,” She rolled her eyes, stuffing the bandana — enough blood on it to make a large amount of the green transform into an off-brown color — into her satchel. He felt bad once he heard the way her words were sharp with offense, and Arthur realized he must’ve made it sound like he was… through with her? There was an awkward period of silence that made Arthur want to have a drink or smoke a cigarette, anything to alleviate the odd tension between them. It was the stress, he had an idea, that was making him say things that were stupid; the guilt probably played a role in it all, too. He wondered if he had made a mistake saying anything at all. The last thing Arthur wanted was to ruin this refreshing friendship between them, all because of his stupid mouth and his shortmindedness.

He could sort things out later; they had more pressing matters to attend to, specifically, dealing with the repercussions of shooting up yet another town.

“Let’s get back to camp, sort this mess out,” Arthur kept his voice steady with the calmness of someone who definitely wasn't feeling guilty or anything. Robin returned it, hiding that twinge of offense that Arthur knew she was feeling right now.

“Sure,”


	8. Clemens Point [1] | A Strange Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang needs to disappears, again; Arthur hates the swamps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some detailed violence in this chapter, so a minor warning there.

It never failed to impress Arthur, how quickly the gang could disappear.

Grimshaw — without a doubt — had something to do with it. She knew the inner workings of the camp and it’s systems like the back of her hand, years upon years of experience holding down the fort had made her not unlike a grizzly fond of her forest hideaway; she knew every single aspect of the camp in a way Arthur couldn’t even begin to describe. She was almost psychic about it, always knowing where things were, how they got there, where they needed to be. Lost the queen of spades from that one deck of cards? Grimshaw knew where it was, even though it would be found in the most obscure of places and easily missed by each and every one of them. A lonesome sock that had drifted away? Not only would Susan know exactly where it was, but she’d also know where the other one was and the last time either of them had been washed — down to the time of day and the hand who had done the washing.

Tilly often jokes about her being a witch, Karen always saying Susan knew exactly what everyone was thinking; Arthur had a hard time seeing the joke in their words, but Grimshaw had proven again and again that she knew things about the camp that regular people simply shouldn’t know — she was  _ that _ familiar with how these things worked.

So it was no surprise that when Robin and Arthur returned, maybe just over an hour after Arthur assumed the others had made it back, the camp was reduced to only a couple tents and wagons that were already halfway to being packed up. He could feel the uneasiness in the air, the unsteady feeling of being forced to run after just settling in. Arthur was acclimated to moving constantly, known to never be one to sit still for long, but not everyone else was. They’d left another town shot to fragments and needing to run, the situation entirely mirroring Blackwater, which had been a burn finally beginning to heal over. Arthur wasn’t sure how many more times the gang could deal with such a violent upheaval, and he worried about Jack, who had finally started to return to that curious, vibrant little boy. He would sink back into that reservation soon enough, confused by the sudden departure yet again as the adults tiptoed around the truth, not being able to tell him what was truly going on as a result of his age.

Grimshaw had already gotten her claws into Robin, because as soon as the woman dismounted her horse, she was already being ushered off to help with something. Robin didn’t even have her own tent or anything, always away and never really staying to rest unless it was unintentional. He wondered where she went but he figured she was lurking around Valentine, perhaps sleeping in a room at the hotel there — guess  _ that _ wasn’t going to be happening anymore. But Arthur hadn’t really thought about how she kind of just… ghosted through camp, there but not entirely. Other than her horse, there were no signs that Robin had been with them for weeks now. And yet, Grimshaw was treating her as if she had chores to do and work with her name on it, but Robin was eager to help pack up regardless of Grimshaw’s bossing around. Arthur heard Susan scold her about her nose before the pair vanished into camp, Arthur immediately getting down to his own business.

He can hear Hosea’s open frustration as he approaches Dutch’s tent, the older man using his hands in a way that shows his disgruntlement. “And when do we start? When we reach Paris?”

“Oh, that’d be nice,” Dutch always got a bit sarcastic whenever he’s in the presence of someone who was explicit in their displeasure with him, which was usually Hosea — Arthur sometimes, but not a lot of the gang were “confident” enough to express their lack of confidence towards Dutch it it arose. “Join the commune? We stop when we find someplace sensible, shake them that’s following us, and lie low,”

“ _ This _ is lying low?” Hosea said, exasperated. “Turned into a bunch of killers, I mean it,”

Hosea had been pissed about Micah and Arthur’s unnecessary shoot-up of Strawberry, perhaps more than Arthur was, who had been fuming to the point of speechlessness. Hosea knew Arthur had merely been dragged into it out of the need of survival, Micah’s volatile nature and subconscious hunger for violent chaos. Pretty much all of the gang had some kind of disgruntled opinion towards Micah, certain members more keen on expressing it than others, and Arthur had no doubt that Hosea was one of them who hated Micah passionately. Why Dutch had enough the man on, nobody seemed to have a clue, and Micah had begun to make Arthur nervous; it was one of the reasons he’d been ignoring the man as he hid and schemed in the mountains behind Strawberry.

Hosea’s voice took on a sharp tone. “We ain’t even got the delusion of being anything  _ but _ a bunch of killers,”

It struck a nerve, Dutch slamming a hand half heartedly on the table, not violently but frustrated. “We are just trying to  _ survive _ , Hosea… we don’t have a choice,” as Hosea raised himself out of the chair, Dutch added, “This’ll end soon,”

“Damn right it will,”

Arthur entered the tent as Hosea brushed across him, needing to fume a bit in solitary. Dutch shook his head for a moment, barely enough to be detected. “Constipated as usual,”

Arthur checked out Dutch’s map of New Hanover and a bit of the southwestern areas of Lemoyne. Heading south, it seemed, deeper into the country and away from their original plans. Arthur had a feeling there was a bit of desperate panic in the decision, the frantic need to get away as quick as possible overwriting their original intentions.

“Micah told me of a place we can lie low. Look here…” Dutch said, pointing to an area off the side of a tiny lake — maybe nothing but a large pond. Arthur hadn’t spent much time in Lemoyne, and he stuck to the northern regions where he was more familiar. “Dewberry Creek, he said.”

Arthur, not trusting Micah’s advisory but not one to dismiss it entirely, nodded and said, “Okay,”

“Maybe you and Charles can take a look, clear off anyone you can find,” Arthur hoped that didn’t mean killing anyone who didn’t need to be killed; they seemed to have been doing that too much lately. “Before the whole lot of us move in looking so  _ conspicuous _ ,”

“And how are we gonna do that?”

“I don’t know,” Yeah, that wasn’t helpful, forcing Arthur to hold back an irate snide comment. “Start dancing?”

It might’ve been time to leave, so Arthur let out one last remark — “Looks like I’ve turned into the goddamn errand boy,” — before making to go mount up. But Dutch wasn’t finished yet, and Arthur’s rather irritated retort only served to slightly rile the man up.

“You have turned into my son,” Dutch said, needing to raise his voice a bit as Arthur started walking towards his horse. “ _ You _ worry because  _ I  _ worry. We are just the same,”

Arthur wanted to talk to Robin, vent out some of his frustrations with her, but it would be using up time the gang didn’t have. He caught her by the other women, saying something to Sadie, who was now wearing  _ pants _ — Arthur had noticed how stiff she’d often looked wearing skirts — and was helping haul supplies into a wagon. He hoped Grimshaw wasn’t giving any of them a tough time, especially Robin, whom the woman still didn’t trust despite seeing some valuable qualities in her character.

Bringing along Charles, Arthur and him went to check out the potential campgrounds. With Charles being one of the few people he’d felt comfortable talking openly to, he voiced some of his concerns and disgruntlement, the other man listening and sympathizing with him — he had similar opinions. Charles wasn’t pleased with their misbehaviors in Valentine, probably because Arthur had “introduced” himself via the act of participating in a bar fight and nearly dying after getting thrown through a window. They’d killed a lot of law and Cornwall’s men, maybe they were one and the same but Arthur couldn’t draw a reasonable conclusion that made his suspicions true. Arthur had felt that heavy guilt of killing more men that he could count, most of which probably didn’t deserve it. He’d go pay off the bounty he knew he had out on him now, just to satisfy his conscience a bit and sort out anyone who’d be out to collect it; it would be awfully inconvenient for him to die or get captured right now.

He found himself worrying about Robin — not the woman herself, but the tension Arthur had created between them. Of course he didn’t want her to leave, not with how close of friends they’d become, and how she’d most likely been a valuable member they needed during these times. He had a suspicion she’d been on her own for a while, whether it was her running from whatever mess she’d made down in Mexico or hunting her brother — which might be one and the same — but Arthur recognized that loneliness; he’d felt plenty of that after he watched his father get hung and been rendered to an orphan in seconds. She was an adult, though, so things were a bit different, but it was still reduced down to the same general sense of being alone.

He really hoped his dumbass mouth hadn’t tarnished that camaraderie between them. She’d been a refreshing taste of kindness that he found himself wanting, especially in a world that was growing increasingly cruel towards people like them.

Micah’s spot was a bust; it was located in a spot that was far too open, and one that would probably be washed away in the case of a heavy rain shower. Charles and Arthur investigated anyways, not wanting to dismiss it entirely without at least scouting the place.

They found a body in the middle of the dried up creek, clothes looking somewhat new and fine-pressed, a fatal gunshot wound in his abdomen. It signaled trouble, hopefully the kind that was long gone by now, but Charles quickly spotted a camp tucked away in the trees, tents running along a dried up stream in an attempt to conceal them better.

There weren’t many tents and it looked deserted, but it was clearly lived in. The tents weren’t made to be collapsed quickly for frequent reconstruction, meaning there was some sort of plan to remain here for a longer period of time. There were barrels that most likely held supplies, clothes hung up in various places, a small campfire that was still emitting a tiny tendril or smoke; it hadn’t been abandoned for long.

It didn’t take long until there was a shotgun aimed at Arthur’s face. He’d heard the whimpering, fearful sounds of people struggling to keep quiet; anyone out to get them wouldn’t be so scared. He’d pulled back a couple planks covering the underside of a wagon, only to be greeted by the sight of a woman and two children — a young boy in a hat and a little girl with braids — and whom he assumed to be their mother gripping a double-barrel tightly in trembling hands.

Charles and him held up their hands, trying to look as harmless as possible, but the weapons slung on their backs in combination with Arthur’s increasingly grizzled appearance — he’d needed a shave — and Charle’s sharp gaze, it wasn’t very successful. Hopefully their words would work.

“It’s okay…” Charles made a show of holstering his own gun, keeping his hands raised and movements slow. “It’s okay, you can come outta there,”

No one responded, the woman eyeing them fearfully, unwaveringly frightened despite Charles’s smooth words. It looked like the three were trying to sink away, to fade away beneath the wagon as to escape the men who certainly didn’t look the most friendly.

Charles continued, Arthur allowing the man who had always been good with people take the lead. “You okay…? We don’t mean you no harm,”

Charles backing away slightly might’ve been the key, because the mother carefully pushed away the crate they were hiding behind. She quickly rode to her feet, pointing the gun at them while the children remained beneath the wagon. Arthur and Charles backed away more, both as a precaution and to possibly placate the woman further. She gestured quickly at the kids, who scrambled to hide behind the woman as she eased herself away from the two men.

Arthur tried to keep his voice as open-sounding as possible. “He said a-are you okay?”

Her voice, finally summoning the courage to speak, wavered heavily. “ _ Sprechen die Deutsch _ ? G-German?”

Arthur and Charles traded a look. If there was one language he couldn’t speak even less than Spanish, it was German — didn’t even know any curse words. It seemed the pressure to start understanding another language was growing, but Arthur knew he didn’t have the patience for it; maybe, he’d have to see, because he had a feeling Robin would be a better teacher than Javier.

“No,” Arthur gestured his hands in what he hoped was a  _ get moving _ hint. “Now go on, get out of here,”

“They took our father!” The little girl was suddenly saying, accent heavy enough that Arthur wasn’t entirely sure he heard her properly. 

“Who did?” Charles asked, voice low.

“M-men, last night,”

“Where?” Arthur could see where Charles was going. “Where did they take him?”

It wasn’t there business, it really wasn’t, and the pressure to move the gang somewhere safe was suffocating. But Arthur felt a voice in his head reminding him of the man he’d been trying to leave behind, and urging him to listen to the one he wanted to become — the one that took detours to give people rides home, who’d thrown away his pride in favor of sucking snake venom out of a man’s leg, who had hunted down that man’s horse after it had gone running.

This was one of those times where the Arthur he’d wanted to leave behind would’ve walked away, dismissed those people from his mind and never thinking about them again. But he resisted, knowing what it was like to lose a parent, not wanting to inflict that on another who’d done nothing to deserve it.

“Come on, Charles,” Arthur said, leading the way back to the horses. Charles gave him a look that Arthur didn’t entirely know what it was conveying, so he merely mounted Aegean and allowed Charles to start tracking — Arthur didn’t even know where to start.

It proved to be something of a wild goose chase, the trail longer than Arthur would’ve thought but Charles stayed on it skillfully. Arthur could tell the other man was getting nervous, what with all the questions he was throwing his way. Arthur didn’t blame him; everyone but  _ Dutch _ seemed to be worried.

It led then along the shore for a while before sharply entering a thicket of woods, a trail within it leading towards a small peninsula overshadowed by a giant tree. The remains of some kind of camp was scattered across it, supplies out in the open. Charles shared the same idea as Arthur; this place would be a better spot for camp than that dried up creek, easier to defend and far more concealed. It might be best to send the gang  _ this _ way.

Arthur wanted to take a better look around when frantic cries interrupted him, muffled and panicked. There was a man tied up by the edge of the camp, hands bound behind his back and feet bound tightly. He squirmed against the bonds, getting dirt all over his worn suit. He started shouting louder behind his gag as Arthur went to untie him, and as soon as he cut off the gag around his mouth, the man was screaming out in harsh German. Arthur wasn’t even allowed a moment of confusion at his words when a bullet nearly clipped him; it had been a trap.

“Take cover!” Arthur shouted, Charles ducking behind one of the stacks of supplies and already shooting off shells from his shotgun. Arthur quickly drew his repeater and joined him, three men running from the trees and dashing stupidly out into the open. Arthur quickly shot all of them, but there were plenty more. They came in horses, more running in with rifles in their hands, firing wildly and with a vigor that seemed kind of unwarranted for a random German man — maybe not as random as he seemed. Their numbers weren’t enough to overwhelm them, especially considering they didn’t seem to be the most talented of shooters, and it didn’t take long until the area was clear.

Arthur sighed, lowering his repeater but keeping it in his hands. “Why the hell you drag us into this, Charles?”

“Lack I checked, you didn’t say no,”

“Yeah, I guess,” Arthur made his way over to the German man and cut the rest of his bonds. The man started saying something that was most likely some kind of thank you, but Arthur — of course — had no goddamn idea. “Charles, go find Dutch, get the caravan to divert here. This spot should work for us,”

“I agree,”

Arthur whistled for Aegean, waving his hand at the German man, who quickly mounted the horse behind Arthur. “Alright, come on. I’ll take you back to your family,”

The man asked questions in German, in which Arthur had no idea how to answer. Arthur tried to ask some simple questions back and only got one answer that made sense to him; they’d captured that man for “geld” — money. Judging by the man’s city-like clothes, it kind of made sense. Regardless, Arthur made sure to quickly return the man to his family, who were predictably ecstatic to see him; hugs and kind words that Arthur didn’t understand but could tell by their tone. He felt some of that heaviness in his chest leave, and he was glad he’d ended up helping them, especially after the father pressed an  _ actual _ gold bar into his hand.

Maybe changing  _ wasn’t _ impossible.

He rode Aegean back to the new campgrounds, settling himself in a cross-legged position while he waited for the caravan to pull up. He allowed himself some time to draw, to write some things down, to let his mind wander.

He wasn’t pleased about leaving Horseshoe Overlook, nor was he pleased with shooting up Valentine. It  _ had _ been in defense, but it didn’t matter — he’d killed too many men regardless. Arthur was beginning to hate how they were leaving so many bodies behind, but at least none of their own had died; god knows one of them should’ve with how many men had been shooting at them. He thought back to the knife against John’s throat, the tightened grip around Strauss’s neck, the blood smeared across Robin’s face. The entire thing had been one giant nightmare, and he knew he’d probably see some twisted versions of it in his dreams — if he ever got to sleep anytime soon.

Dutch and the others arrived soon enough, Grimshaw and Pearson immediately getting everybody to work. They’d even managed to get  _ Sean _ working, who absolutely  _ abhorred _ anything even remotely related to chores. They efficiently set up camp, tents and wagons positioned and set up, supplies unloaded and bedrolls laid out. Arthur helped out of course, mainly directed towards the heavy lifting because lord knows there was plenty of  _ that _ to be done. Dutch got his gramophone going and Pearson was quick to start whipping up some stew, everyone settling back into the rhythm of the camp dynamic.

Dusk was nearing once the gang was finally settled in, campfires quickly ignited and various ways of sitting wrapped around them. The exhaustion was setting in, Arthur could feel it taunting him from the corners of his vision as he sat near the edge of camp sketching the lake, making him feel kind of heavy. He was used to going long periods without sleep, his body somehow adapting to it, but that didn’t mean he didn’t need to sleep every once and while; he had that need now.

Suddenly, Robin was sitting beside him on the log, her green scout jacket discarded and only wearing her grey flannel; as they got closer to the swamps of Lemoyne, the temperature had been steadily warming. They sat in silence for a bit, Arthur sketching while Robin leaned back on the log, eyes drifting across the lake and most likely wandering her thoughts. He didn’t feel awkward just sitting with her, but he felt that lingering tension and it was getting difficult not to acknowledge it.

“I’m sorry about what I said after Valentine,” She turned to face him as Arthur spoke, his voice low as he carefully selected his words. “It… came out wrong,”

She shrugged. “No, I get it,”

It was surprising. “You do?”

“Yeah,” She responded, meeting his gaze, her expression lacking the judgement or offense Arthur had kind of been expecting. “But you gotta know I make my own choices, Arthur — not everything that happens is your fault,”

It was something he just… kind of did. He always assumed responsibility, finding reasons that he was the one who had made things go wrong — that he’d somehow done something to make everything go to shit. It was easier to blame himself than it was to blame another. There were plenty of times where the fault clearly lied with someone else, but there were also numerous times where it wasn’t as clear. Arthur had dragged Robin into that job with John because he didn’t want to confront his feelings towards the man, but… Robin  _ had _ agreed to go. And it was hard to ignore that Arthur had no idea that mess was waiting for them in town.

“You’re good at that,” She gestured to his journal, the half finished sketch of the lake on the page. The compliment made his chest a little tight — he’d always been self-conscious about his drawing, which was one of the many reasons he kept his journal tucked away. “ _ Really _ good,”

“I dunno,”

She scoffed. “Don’t need to be so  _ modest _ , Arthur, you got some real talent there,”

Arthur chuckled. “That’s, um, mighty kind of you,”

She gave him a smile, a kind one that made the corners of Arthur’s mouth quirk up. He watched as she reached into her satchel and pulled out a piece of paper, one he quickly recognized as a bounty poster. “Went to Rhodes quick to grab some more medicine and saw this in the station, figured you might be interested,”

She handed it to him. The man’s name was Mark Johnson, wanted for robbing trains and stagecoaches — had a bounty of 25 dollars out on him. It wasn’t a lot, but the man didn’t seem too threatening, going off of his looks alone; it would be easy money the gang needed right now. Suddenly, he didn’t feel as tired anymore.

“What do you know about him?” Arthur asked, tucking away his journal and handing the poster back to her.

“Man at the station called him a ‘bad egg,’ whatever  _ that _ means. Anyway, he said he’s over at this place called Siltwater Strand, in the swamps,”

“Sure, why not,” Arthur responded, getting to his feet. “Wanna head out now?”

“Yes,  _ please _ ,” When Arthur gave her a quizzical look, she rolled her eyes. “Grimshaw has been…  _ thoroughly  _ utilizing my services,”

Arthur laughed as he led the way to the horses. “Susan’s got her claws in you, don’t she?”

“You have no idea,”

Arthur took a moment to pat Aegean and give her a peppermint, giving her some appreciation she deserved after the fiasco in Valentine. Robin was patient, even though Armadillo was making his desire to get moving very obvious. He heard her mumble “asshole” to the horse in a way that was contrastingly friendly, patting his neck to get him to stop shuffling on his hooves.

Nudging Aegean towards the trail out of camp with Robin beside him, they set out. Arthur was as familiar with the area as he’d like to be, but he figured they’d be staying here a while — Hosea would make sure Dutch didn’t shoot up  _ this _ town, considering how pissed he had been regarding Valentine. Arthur asked her about her thoughts on the whole situation and she expressed concerns similar to his own; they’d shot a lot of men to get out of there, and there was no telling what kind of…  _ violent _ repercussions would occur as a result.

Swampland quickly overtook their surroundings, the air stuffy with humidity and smelling harshly of mud. It forced Arthur to take off his jacket, which only allowed the humidity to press down on his harder. Robin had tied her hair up high so it wouldn’t heat up her neck, hissing out how she was  _ this _ close to cutting it off and running bald, making Arthur laugh. After the stress of the past day, Arthur found himself needing her friendliness and the pick-me-up of their casual conversations. They talked about a bit of everything and a bit of nothing; that gold bar given to Arthur by the German family, how Robin had accidentally mentioned dominos to Tilly and now the girl was constantly looking to play a couple rounds, Uncle’s lumbago — which was, unfortunately, an  _ actual _ condition that Robin subsequently started to explain extensively.

It took a couple hours until they reached the area around Siltwater Strand, heading deep in the swamps just as the sun was setting. Arthur wasn’t fond of traveling at night in these areas, but he wasn’t alone, so they’d probably ward off any unpleasant individuals who would’ve wanted to rob them. They only had to worry about the animals, but even so, Arthur knew how to deal with them.

There was a small camp tucked in the giant cypress trees, hidden away from the road. It consisted of a large tent and a wagon, some supplies stacked around alongside crates. He heard voices as him and Robin approached, the sound of a man and a younger boy, perhaps. A woman gasped frightfully as they came into view.

“They’re here for your bounty!” The woman gazed at him with wide eyes, fear ignoring the irises. “Come to mamma, boy,”

Arthur sighed once he saw the boy, clearly in the middle of his teenage years, tucked behind his mother as they watched Arthur and Robin dismount. The poor kid looked terrified. The man, whom Arthur assumed was Mark Johnson, stood protectively in front of them, hands held out in front of his chest.

“Don’t shoot. I’m unarmed,” Johnson said, voice steady, even though Arthur could hear the tint of fear in his words. “We knew you was comin’. I got somethin’ to ask,”

Arthur traded a look with Robin, who was watching the scene unfold with a curious expression on her face, fingers hooked on her gun belt. Unsure of the man, Arthur gave a small nod, encouraging the man to continue.

“I’m a changed man, okay?” Arthur had heard it plenty of times before, but it sounded different this time; defeated. “Let me say my farewells. I’ll come away peacefully,”

His words were sincere, Arthur could tell, so he nodded. “Make it quick,”

As the man turned to speak to his family, he felt Robin tug on his sleeve. She looked uncertain, eyebrows scrunched up as she whispered to him, “We should let him go — he’s got a  _ family _ ,”

Arthur swallowed; the man had started to remind him of John. He saw the parallels and it made him hesitate. Arthur had taken far too many men from their families, and honestly, was taking this man from his wife and son really worth it?

Arthur sighed, running a hand across his brow at the sweat that was gathering there. He found himself nodding; 25 dollars wasn’t worth leaving a boy fatherless and a woman widowed.

As Johnson turned and started walking towards them, Robin held up a hand, the man assuming a surprised expression as he stopped. “We’re gonna let you go,”

He rushed forward, clasping Robin’s hand and shaking it enthusiastically. She smiled awkwardly as he spluttered out thanks before he grabbed Arthur’s hand and did the same. “You’re good people, thank you!”

As Arthur moved to mount Aegean, he found himself saying to the man, “Little advice; just go pay off your bounty, save you a whole lotta trouble,”

Robin gave the family a little wave before the pair left their camp, heading back towards Clement’s Point. It was dark now, the sun finally setting, unleashing all the annoying little bugs that Arthur kept swatting at. They rode in silence for a little bit, the sound of bullfrogs and crickets humming in the background, before Arthur decided to ask a question.

“Think that man’ll stop the robbin’?”

“Yeah, I think so,” She replied, swatting angrily at a bug that had darted at her face. “After a pair of bounty hunters come knocking on your door, that’s usually all the lesson you need, especially if you got a family,”

Arthur couldn’t catch the question in time. “Why ain’t you sleepin’ at camp?”

She merely shrugged, her expression hard to read in the darkness. “Don’t really sleep well around other people,”

“Yeah?”

She nodded before smirking at him. “Anyways, Sean said you snore,”

Arthur scoffed. “I ain’t a snorer.  _ He’s _ the one who sleeps until goddamn noon, grumblin’ all kinds of nonsense in his sleep,”

She chuckled, shaking her head with a smile on her face. “Yeah, well if you’re ever looking for me, I’ll probably be in that hotel in Rhodes — not that saloon, too damn expensive,”

“Alright,”

That’s when they heard the crying.

Arthur yanked Aegean to a halt, Robin doing the same. It had grown eerily quiet, the kind of quiet that made Arthur’s hair stand on end. It was an awful kind of crying, full of heavy anguish that sent chills down his spine. There was a tiny light in the distance, flickering and a deep orange, casting odd shadows across the road.

He had to investigate; that kind of weeping couldn’t just be ignored. Robin hissed something to Arthur but followed alongside him anyways, Armadillo shifting anxiously as he walked.

The woman looked awful, shadows cast across her face as the tiny torch in front of her flickered eerily. She was hunched over, hands pressed into her face as she sobbed, a tarnished white nightgown on her bony figure. Her hair was a rat’s nest, tangled and muddied; he couldn’t see her face. She looked like some kind of ghost, and merely looking at her as he shoulders shook from her cries made Arthur’s gut churn. Arthur wasn’t one to run, but something inside him was screaming at him to do so.

“Arthur…” He’d never heard Robin’s voice so…  _ nervous _ before. She had a hand on her revolver, ready to draw it, undoubtedly feeling that same trepidation Arthur had stirring in his stomach.

Maybe it was stupid, dismounting — he did it anyways — and carefully approaching the woman. He spoke as softly as he could, keeping his words calm. “Ma’am? You alright?”

She gave no response nor any reaction that she’d heard him, weeping as loud and aguishly as ever. He traded a look with Robin, who had wrapped her hands around the grip of her pistol, eyes watching the woman sharply. And then all of a sudden, the woman was on her feet, a knife in her hand and launching herself at him.

He drew his pistol, shooting her later than he would’ve liked, that knife getting way too close. He shot her through the head, and as her body fell, there were suddenly more people emerging from the brush. He heard Robin curse harshly, Armadillo and Aegean crying out in terror, and Arthur started shooting.

They didn’t look right, these…  _ people _ ? Their skin was almost grey, clothing tarnished and muddied, groaning and hissing like goddamn animals. They wore no shoes as they dashed at him, freakishly fast but not fast enough to dodge a bullet. God, there were so many of them, all looking like morbid half-rotten corpses and letting out bizarre inhuman noises. One of them screamed, harsh and angry, and Arthur realized it hadn’t been one of the freaks, but Robin.

He turned just in time to see her get tackled off her horse, back slamming harshly into the mud as she struggled against one of them. Arthur had to throw himself to the side to avoid one of them launching at him, too, shooting quickly and focusing on Robin. He felt his stomach drop when he saw the madman fucking  _ bite _ her, chomping on the arm that she’d raised to block the knife he had in his hand. She let out a yell, fighting harder, and Arthur threw himself forward and grabbed the man off of her, quickly shoving his revolver under the man’s chin and shooting. The man’s hissing and snarling cut off abruptly, that eerie silence returning, and Arthur wanted nothing more to just get back to camp and hide in his cot.

Robin was dragging herself away from the man, breathing heavily and holding her left arm close to her chest. Almost her entire bottom half of her sleeve was dark with blood, and he saw it dripping from her fingertips from the wound on her forearm.

“He took a _goddamn_ _bite_ outta me!” She hissed, Arthur crouching down in front of her and wincing. She rolled up her sleeve, revealing the extent of the injury, and Arthur didn’t need to be a doctor to see how bad it was.

Christ, he  _ had _ taken a chunk out of her. There was so much blood that he couldn’t see how deep it was, but there was a dip in her forearm, like someone had taken a scoop out of it. Luckily it wasn’t on the inside, where her veins were, but it didn’t matter because it was bleeding so much. He saw how her arm trembled, her breath coming out in sharp gasps, the pain in her eyes but narrowed in with the same focus she’d had when Strauss had been shot and the glass had been in Arthur’s throat.

“Arthur, my satchel,” She pointed with her other hand, the bag lying on the ground, which must’ve flown off her when the man tackled her. He quickly ran and collected it, allowing her to direct him; he was sorely out of his element here, and his own panic and the shock of the entire situation settling in harshly. “There’s a bottle of clear liquid, it’s got ‘antiseptic’ written on the side,”

He nodded, finding the bottle quickly. He grabbed gauze from the bag as well, handing both to her. God, it was bleeding a lot; he’d never seen or experienced an injury like this before, and he wasn’t sure the procedures for it; thank god Robin did.

She poured a generous amount over the wound, hissing harshly and Arthur winced in sympathy. She shut her eyes for a moment, lips pressed in a thin line as the antiseptic did its work. She harshly snarled something in what didn’t sound like Spanish so he assumed it was Filipino, the words just as odd as German. He didn’t blame her; he had no doubt it hurt like all hell.

Pressing the gauze to the wound, the blotch of crimson already leaking into the cloth, Robin lifted a shaking hand to her lips and whistled. The horses had fled — which was understandable, because Arthur probably would’ve done the same if he knew what was about to happen — but he hoped they hadn’t gone far enough not to hear the whistle. He was relieved to hear two sets of hooves trudging through the mud, Aegean and Armadillo looking unharmed but scared shitless.

“What the fuck just happened?” She spat out, words rapid and heavy with fear. Her eyes were still darting across the swamp, switching between nervously watching their surroundings and her wound.

“I ain’t got a clue, but we can’t stick around,” Arthur couldn’t keep the waver out of his voice, adrenaline still running through his veins and his gut persistently screaming at him to run. Arthur didn’t get scared often — worried, nervous, or apprehensive, absolutely — but he was terrified right now. It was a mixture of getting attacked by goddamn humanoid monsters and the way Robin’s arm was bleeding.

Robin nodded, allowing Arthur to help her to her feet, the woman swaying and Arthur kept a firm grasp on her uninjured arm. The gauze was almost entirely red and it was unnerving. Her voice was unsteady as she spoke. “I might pass out, honestly,”

“Then you’re ridin’ with me — Armadillo can follow,” 

Arthur helped her into the saddle, Aegean staying still despite the way she was whinnying nervously. Arthur mounted behind Robin, keeping an arm on either side of her as he grabbed the reins, just in case she started leaning. She was strong, stronger than most, but blood loss was a cruel mistress that didn’t give a shit about how strong you were; even Arthur knew that the kind reached a point where it shut down, and that couldn’t be fought off.

He had to keep her talking, to keep her as conscious as possible for as long as he could. Whistling for Armadillo, who had started to trust Arthur enough to listen to him that much, Arthur spurred Aegean into a run, fast enough to cover ground quickly but not enough to rattle Robin. Armadillo fell in behind him, nervous but obedient, as if sensing his rider’s status.

“I ain’t never seen… people like  _ that _ ,” It felt weird calling those  _ things _ people, because they most certainly hadn’t behaved like one. Hissing like snakes, clawing like wildcats, biting like wolves, they were animalistic, and Arthur had no idea how someone could be reduced to such a state.

Her voice was steady, slightly weak, but it was better than he’d been expecting; tough son of a bitch, she was. “I don’t think they were people anymore,”

“What do you think’s wrong with ‘em?” He asked, knowing she’d start flipping through her mental catalogue of diagnosis, get her mind going and fighting back unconsciousness a little longer.

She tossed the gauze, pressing a new bit of cloth to her wound before answering. “All I can think of is rabies, but they didn’t have all the signs. God, there were so many of them, all goddamn  _ crazy _ ,”

Arthur nodded. Robin looked terrible. Her entire back was coated in mud, her hair thick with it from the struggle; she was pale, her fair skin looking almost grey, arm covered with blood and tendrils of it dripping morbidly from her fingertips. She kept her arm close to her chest, as if trying to wilt away from it, raising it slightly to elevate the wound.

Then the trail turned from mud and into dried dirt, the stuffiness in the air fading away, grass replacing the towering cypress trees. They were getting closer, and it was late now, perhaps closer to midnight and possibly worrying some members of camp; Hosea was probably driving himself nuts. It wasn’t uncommon for Arthur to leave camp, to go out at night or spend days away, so there was the possibility of no one being concerned at all. Robin’s absence was probably noticed as well, and he hoped people weren’t drawing conclusions…

“How’s camp treatin’ you?” Arthur asked, realizing how quiet it had gotten. Robin hadn’t sagged against him, so she was still conscious it seemed.

“Huh?”

“Camp — how's it goin’ with them?”

“Ah,” Her voice wasn’t as steady as it had been, and it was concerning. Still, she talked with enough clarity that made him feel a bit better. “Most are alright. Bill is kinda an asshole and I don’t think Molly likes me. And I’m pretty sure Kieran thinks I’m gonna kill him,”

Arthur chuckled. “Well, Bill  _ is  _ an asshole, and Molly’s kind of got some… stuff goin’ on,” And by  _ stuff _ , Arthur meant her relationship with Dutch, but Robin didn’t really need to know that. “Kieran thinks we’re all gonna kill him, so…”

“He’s a good kid,” Robin said. “I’m pretty sure he’s sweet on Mary-Beth,”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely — ah, shit…” And then she was leaning, gripping Arthur’s arm as she tipped. He cursed when tilted forward, quickly wrapping an arm around her midsection to prevent her from sliding out of the saddle. Thank god they were almost at camp, the forest of thin trees wrapping around them as he entered the trail. Her head leaned bonelessly against his shoulder, Arthur needing to move his arms in a way that he was using his elbow to apply pressure to her wound and his hand to grip the reins. It was uncomfortable, but frankly he didn’t care.

He breezed past Javier, who was on watch for the night, not even bothering to hitch Aegean nor Armadillo. Thankfully, he’d been right about Hosea driving himself nuts, because the man was sitting next to the campfire with a book in his hands. His eyes widened as he spotted them in the saddle, both undoubtedly looking terrible, one of them bloodied and unconscious.

“What the hell, Arthur?” Hosea quickly helped him take Robin off the saddle, who had started to stir at the movement. She mumbled something as Arthur made a motion to pick her up, but she made a disagreeing sound, so Arthur opted to hang her uninjured arm across his shoulder and lead her to the table, where Hosea was already unloading the medical kit. Camp had already fallen asleep, which Arthur was thankful for, because he knew Robin most likely would’ve been embarrassed; the doctor needing medical attention?

He lowered her into a chair, and in the light of the nearby campfire, it wound looked  _ bad _ . It was still bleeding freely, not as bad as before but enough to be concerning. God, he hoped it wouldn’t get infected, but who knew what kind of shit those freaks had. Hosea quickly pressed a cloth to the wound, Robin hissing but allowing him to do so. She’d gained some color in her face, but was still far too pale, the blood loss growing severe.

Arthur felt like he was hovering but he knew Hosea was gearing up to lightly interrogate them, and once Robin replaced Hosea’s hand on the cloth, he immediately got to work. “What the hell happened to you two?”

Arthur ran a hand down his face, rubbing at the headache blossoming in his temples. “Goddamn  _ freaks _ attacked up in the swamp,”

“Freaks?”

He nodded. “Feral or somethin’.”

Hosea assumed a pensive look as he brought out some alcohol from the kit, Robin grabbing it and pouring some more on the wound. The two men winced in sympathy as she hissed. Hosea returned his gaze to Arthur. “I’ve heard some things about…  _ oddballs _ out in Lemoyne,”

He scoffed. “That’s puttin’ it mildly,”

“What were you two doing out there, anyway?”

“A bounty,” Arthur said.

“Hosea,” Robin said as she lifted up the cloth to examine the wound. It appeared to be bleeding less, and it must’ve been what she was looking for. “Help me stitch this — my hands are shaking too much,”

Hosea nodded, giving her a reassuring smile as he brought out a hooked needle and thread. Arthur was no stranger to wound care or blood, but even this made his gut churn a bit. He watched as Robin pushed the two ends of the wound together with her free hand, Hosea slipping the needle between them and stitching it tightly. She cringed but kept her arm still, fingers curling; it was clearly not her first time getting stitches. Hosea was careful, Robin even complimenting him as he stitched, while Arthur watched with a morbid fascination as the wound was sewn shut.

“Seems like trouble follows you, too, Miss Rivera,” Hosea quibbed as he wrapped a bandage around her forearm. “Arthur here has a knack for it,”

Arthur rolled his eyes, leaning against the table and crossing his arms. “I ain’t  _ lookin’ _ for it, old man,”

Hosea shrugged, keeping that teasing smirk on his face. “In any case, we’re gonna have to watch that arm carefully,”

Robin chuckled softly. “Don’t need to tell me,”

“You can take my cot tonight,” Arthur nodded to his wagon, Robin following his gaze but shaking her head.

“Thanks, but I’ve got a room in Rhodes,”

He scoffed. “You’d be a fool tryin’ to ride a horse like this,” He gestured at her, with her pale face and the hands he could still see shaking slightly. She was strong, that’s for sure, but blood loss didn’t give a shit about strength. Not to mention if infection set in or something…

“I have to agree with him, Miss Rivera,” Hosea said, and Arthur was thankful he was backing him up. Robin was stubborn, maybe even more so than he was, and  _ that _ was saying a lot.

She saw she’d be fighting a lost cause, the decision already made for her; Hosea was a hard man to beat in a debate, and Robin was certainly too exhausted to start refuting him, so she merely sighed. “Fine — but  _ just _ until morning,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to mention that yes, most of this fic WILL be canon-compliant, meaning it will follow the baseline plot of the game. However I will be changing some things, mainly just the order of events, but as the story progresses I will be diverging the plot a bit. I didn't want to do an insert fic as I find those a bit too "easy," for a lack of a better word, but I'm just doing this for fun so whatever! ;)
> 
> Also, I suck at conclusions...


	9. Clemens Point [2] | The New South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trelawny always shows up where you least expect him to be; Arthur catches some fish.

Arthur sought out Dutch shortly after the sun rose.

He hadn’t been able to sleep. It wasn’t a matter of comfort — Arthur had spent plenty of times lying flat on uneven ground, oftentimes without a blanket or any warmth other than his clothes — but the stress. He kept seeing those freaks from the swamp whenever he closed his eyes, hearing them hissing and snarling in the murky darkness, the sound of Robin’s scream when that man had fucking  _ bit _ her.

She would be fine, especially considering she didn’t show any signs of fever and her arm had stopped bleeding. She’d slept heavily, not moving a muscle across the hours in his cot, breath heavy and even. Even after the camp had started to wake up, Arthur let her sleep; Hosea must’ve said something to Grimshaw because even that old hawk didn’t come and bother her. She needed time to recover — rest and sleep — from the alarming amount of blood she’d lost, so he’d pulled down the flaps of his tent and left her there undisturbed.

He found Dutch by the edge of the lake, hands hooked on gunbelt and a pensive look in his eyes. He half expected the man not to react when Arthur approached, looking so deep in thought that he’d drifted away into some other world, but he’d immediately focused on Arthur. “How you doing, old friend?”

“Fine,” Arthur replied, walking over to the man.

He eyed Arthur curiously before saying with a hint of humor, “And why is Miss Rivera in  _ your _ cot, Arthur?”

He scoffed. “Ain’t like that, Dutch — guessin’ Hosea didn’t get to tellin’ you, then?”

“No, he did not,” Dutch gave him the equivalent of a weary look, shrouded behind that airy confidence and steadiness.

Scratching nervously at his neck, Arthur said, “Ran into some freaks in the swamp. Creepy bastards, one of ‘em went and goddamn  _ bit _ her,”

“Christ,” Dutch openly expressed some corner, most likely out of curiosity rather than worry; Dutch didn’t worry, and he’d expressed plenty of times that he didn’t have  _ time _ to worry nowadays.

“Yeah, it was, um, kinda rough, lost a lotta blood,” Arthur sighed uneasily, pushing aside the thoughts of those grey-skinned primals and the knives they weirded — the blood. “What’d you wanna talk to me about?”

Dutch nodded his head and led them forward, Arthur moving to follow him. “It’s funny, us ending up down here…” Dutch began. “My daddy died in a field in Pennsylvania, fighting this lot. I ever tell you that?”

Dutch was all about talking about his family history, somehow managing to be oddly specific and yet extremely vague at the same time. And sure, Arthur listened well enough, but it wasn’t unlike Sean going on and on about his da…

“Many times,” Arthur said, following Dutch as he directed them towards the horses. He was getting curious now, wondering what Dutch had planned for them.

“I see I’m  _ boring _ you, Arthur,”

It seemed like as good a time as any to try and be open with Dutch, to put to use some of that honesty Robin had started getting him to practice. “ _ Worrying _ me… we lost men back there,”

Dutch was as quick as ever. “We have lofty goals, Arthur. We are trying to reform society to a kinder, truer,  _ better _ way — now, of course there’s gonna be casualties,”

It didn’t seem like they were doing that anymore; he’d been noticing it as the gang took on more members. It had become less about “reforming” society and more about manipulating it, getting what they could and more from the people it consisted of. Arthur had been seeing it more and more as things started going bad. It was beginning to drift away from making some kind of impact and more about selfish desires.

And Arthur understood — this gang was his  _ family _ — and they needed money and resources to survive. But he’d begun to see the greed sink in, seemingly overwriting their plans to get away and lie low. Maybe it had started with that train robbery, how it had been an unnecessary risk that still hadn’t reaped any rewards. And yes, they were outlaws, “sophisticated” criminals, and that wasn’t going to change anytime soon. But the world was, and it seemed Arthur was the only one who was seeing that; maybe he was just getting nervous.

He allowed that unrestrained candor to leak through, hoping Dutch would see his words for what they were and not what they could have meant. “We’re thieves… in a world that don’t want us no more,”

Dutch wasn’t blind, but he was selective. He didn’t see the whole picture, only the portions that suited him, and his response made that clear; it was a bit worrying, but Dutch had a boundless supply of faith that made people believe in him, and Arthur wasn’t very different from the rest of them. “We are  _ dreamers _ in an ever  _ duller _ world of  _ facts _ , now I’ll give you that, but come on…”

That looming cloud followed them the whole way, the peripheral elephant in the room that needed to be acknowledged but all of them relishing in its momentary absence; the Pinkertons, Valentine, Blackwater,  _ money… _ It was brought up a couple times but quickly overwritten by other, more casual things. Dutch seemed to know about Rhodes to an extent, advising the pair of them discreetly poke their noses into potential opportunities, he’d also requested — thankfully — that they and the rest of the gang needed to be on their “best behavior” for the time being. Dutch might not have been as pressed as Arthur and Hosea had been regarding Valentine, but even he knew the slew of problems that came along with rustling up a town.

But, of course, before they could get down to some casual time together, they’d rode up to a pair of officers with a cage full of “undesirable” men in the back, one of which was — unfortunately — quickly recognized; Josiah Trelawny. Seemed he’d acquired a knack for showing up in places that didn’t satisfy his character, and Arthur felt a wave of teases overwhelming him once they pulled up next to the cart, Josiah looking like a caged mouse behind the bars.

“Hello, gentlemen,” Josiah’s voice was full of that exuberant lilt that was entirely inappropriate, considering the circumstances. He’d turned to look at Dutch and Hosea, who’d been closest to his spot in the back of the cart, clearly trying not to look desperate as he pressed up against the bars.

Dutch chuckled softly as he peered at the man. “Well, look what the cat drug in,”

“I seem to have gotten myself in a spot of bother—“

The cart jerked as one of the men driving it slammed a hand on the top, sending the sharp clang of unsecured metal through the air. “Quiet back there,”

Arthur shook his head, allowing a smirk to leak onto his features. “Well, well, look who it is…”

Of course, they weren’t going to  _ leave _ the man there — Trelawny was harmless, really, and only served a danger to himself more than anyone else. He had a tendency to stir up trouble and be miles away once it got out of hand; he was a cockroach that managed to scurry into the deepest of places. Josiah didn’t spend too much time directly in camp, often going off for long periods of time and uncovering business to throw back their way. But he was loyal to the lot of them, despite being a bit of a coward and far too…  _ irenic  _ for his own good.

Dutch dove straight in, nudging The Count forward until he was beside the two men driving the wagon. He assumed a look of nonchalance, just a man who was stuck waiting for a train like the rest of them, voice collected and unconcerned as he spoke. It was like watching a show in which Arthur knew the whole script, so used to seeing Dutch’s silver tongue in action that he could almost always predict the outcome.

“How are you boys?” Dutch inquired, waving a friendly hand as he approached the two men.

The blonde one with scraggly mutton chops and a mustache responded dismissively, “Fine,”

“This is quite some country you have here,”

“We like it well enough,”

Arthur had no idea where Dutch came up with such abhorrent names. He assumed it came from the gibberish of Shakespeare and the unwarranted sophistication of Evelyn Miller, whom he’d tried to force feed him his words when Arthur was a teenager. “Hoagy Macintosh, at your service,”

If there was one thing about odd names, they got someone’s attention. The two men turned and looked at Dutch quizzically, the blonde with the terrible facial hair introducing himself with a wave of his hand, “Leigh Gray,” He gestured at the tribally-wearing short-haired man beside him. “This is my deputy, Archibald Macgregor,”

Ah, so he was the sheriff. Arthur hoped Dutch was treading lightly; the last thing they needed was the local law on their asses alongside the Pinkertons.

Dutch nodded courteously. “It is nice to meet you,”

Hosea and Arthur let him command the situation, never the ones to interrupt such a flawless performance. Upon receiving a sneaking glance from Dutch, the men assumed their full attention at picking the lock while Trelawny stared at the other man with eager eyes; he was obviously not fond of his company at the moment.

“You a scot?” Leigh Gray asked, his curious tone signaling the beginning of an attention-devoting conversation.

“Partly… the  _ best _ part,” The two shared a laugh for a moment before Dutch rerouted his course. “Now, tell me sir, what did the silly fancy fop back there do? Nothing too terrible, I trust,”

The sheriff glanced back to look at Trelawny, his companions immediately snapping their arms to their sides to appear inconspicuous; Sheriff Gray was none the wiser. “He was accused of running a gold mining investment scam,”

That sounded exactly like something Trelawny would do, but they didn’t need to know that. “Oh, no, no, no, no… I’m sure he wasn’t,”

Arthur shook his head, smirking as he watched the men struggle with the lock. Arthur could’ve had the thing broken in a couple seconds, and while lockpicking wasn’t his strong suit, he was a hell of a lot better than these fools. It was getting hard to watch, but Arthur wasn’t about to  _ help _ them, even if Trelawny was locked in there, too. He was just a  _ bystander _ — this wasn’t even remotely his business.

“He is a magician. I know him,” Dutch said, the subtle teasing of Trelawny making Arthur’s smirk even greater. “He’s a fool, but he is not a bad feller,”

The lock opened with a clang as the men burst out of the cage, wasting no time rushing around and chasing after the train that was going by; a perfect escape served on a silver platter.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you!” Trelawny yelped, helping nail down the hammer on his innocuous act.

“ _ Shit _ !” Sheriff Gray shouted, the alarm in his voice harsh as he twisted in the driver’s seat and gaped at the men with wide eyes, while his deputy launched himself off the wagon and ran after them. “The Anderson Boys! I can’t have more scandal!”

Deputy Macgregor had no chance running after them on foot, and he instinctively raised his gun, but the shot was too risky; they must’ve needed them alive. The defeat in his posture was evident and Arthur kind of felt bad for him, minus the fact that he was a lawman and it easily could’ve been Arthur locked up in that cage instead.

“Well, allow us to help, my friend,” Dutch said, Arthur hoping the man couldn’t see him roll his eyes. “Arthur…”

“Chase wanted men?” He nudged Aegean forward, already knowing the hassle that awaited him.

“And take Archibald with you!”

Not  _ just _ him, then. He reached over and grasped the man’s awaiting hand, hauling him into the back of Aegean, who was eager to get moving. “Just what I signed up for… come on, big guy,”

As much as Arthur was all about chasing after trains, he was really looking forward to having some quiet, boring time with a fishing rod in his hands. And yet, instead of being on the side of some creek somewhere, he was spurring Aegean to a speed that made his eyes water with a lawman riding in the saddle behind him. How quickly his plans had changed, it seemed.

“Stay with that train. Don’t let them get away,” Archibald hissed into Arthur’s ear as he anxiously eyed the moving train, gripping tightly around the other man’s torso as Aegean galloped. “And keep your guns holstered! We need them Anderson boys alive,”

No wonder he wanted to chase them. Arthur found himself wondering what kind of scandal they were trying to avoid, but quickly found himself not caring. Whatever plan Dutch had to get Trelawny out of that mess unscathed, he hoped it was worth it — and maybe this time Josiah would send them a thank you, because god knows this wasn’t the first nor the last time he’d need to be rescued; the man might be a cockroach, but even they die if they get stomped on hard enough.

Archibald was annoying as all hell, frantic about catching “them Anderson boys” like a mother whose child went wandering off. Aegean was obediently obeying Arthur’s spurs to her sides, pushing herself to speeds that made her pant and most certainly draining her stamina like nothing else. Once one of them finally made it on top of the train, he got cocky, overconfident in the way a little kid gets when they know they’ve gotten away with something. It earned him a nice smack to the head as he forgot to duck under the passing building, the man tumbling unconscious onto the ground, possibly dead but definitely taking a nice nap while he waited to be collected later.

Why it needed to be Arthur to jump onto the train, he had no idea, but Archibald was urging him on in a way that made him want to leave him anyways. He hoped Aegean wouldn’t buck the deputy off, even though that would’ve been satisfying, albeit entirely inconvenient if the man died from the impact. Regardless, he ended up throwing one of the Anderson boys off the train when it passed the station and chasing after the remaining two. As they led him across the roofs of train cars and up and down flatbeds, Arthur really wished he could just shoot them, but he’d never hear the end of it from Dutch if he jeopardized whatever alliance they had going right now.

One of them got confident after Arthur hauled himself onto another train car’s roof, throwing a fist at his face that he barely managed to dodge and counter. The movement of the train was making his stance unsteady but it wasn’t his time brawling in a train — it was, however, his first time fighting on the  _ top _ of one, the threat of being manhandled and thrown off the side looming over him.

It was a good thing this Anderson wasn’t the best fighter, but he took punches remarkably well. Arthur let him throw a heavy punch towards his face, using the man’s momentum against him on top of the already unsteady ground beneath them. He stumbled, Arthur swerving around him and wrapping an arm around his neck, cutting off his airway until he stopped struggling — he fell unconscious, his neck still intact and perfectly  _ alive _ .

“Come on!” Archibald shouted from his spot alongside the train, still seated in Aegean’s saddle; he’d have to show her some serious appreciation for treating such a  _ parrot _ of a man so well. “You stop them, I’ll stop the train!”

He followed the last Anderson to the end of the train, where a car full of meat and preservatives made the air smell like salt. He had nowhere to run now, but it didn’t seem to bother him, because he unsheathed a knife from his belt and spread his arms wide in a taunt. “Guess it’s just us then,  _ lawman _ . Come here…”

Arthur rolled his eyes at his words and readied himself. A knife in a fistfight was somewhat of a concern, but the Anderson stood in a way that showed he didn’t know how to wield it properly. Yet anyone could stab someone if they knew which end of the knife was sharp, so Arthur kept his guard up.

Just as Arthur was about to start hitting, the train lurched to a stop, making him stumble forward and the other man fall back into the wall. It didn’t deter either of them, and Arthur ignored Archibald outside the train car insisting he didn’t kill the man before throwing himself at his opponent.

Knife fights were ugly business, a blade able to damage even if it didn’t lodge itself somewhere fatal. There were plenty of good spots where even a well-aimed slice could make you bleed out, go numb, or sever nerves. Arthur didn’t know all of them but he knew enough that he didn’t want to experience them personally. He was glad he wore his gunslinger jacket today, despite the heat, as it would serve as a bit of a buffer between his skin and the blade.

He was eager and overconfident, thinking that just because he had a knife and Arthur had his fists that things would end easily — he was wrong, of course. The Anderson lurched forward and swiped at Arthur’s chest, who leaned away and to the side to aim a punch at the man’s side. It connected, the man groaning and immediately swinging the knife back towards them. The blade got close but Arthur swerved and grasped the man’s shoulders, shoving him forward and into a hanging sack of meat. It knocked the wind out of the man, and Arthur immediately pounced on the opportunity, grabbing the man’s neck and slamming his face into Arthur’s knee. He felt the crack of his nose breaking —  _ hopefully _ it was his nose — and the man went limp, knife falling from lifeless fingers as he fell to the floor unconscious.

Arthur sighed as Archibald shouted from outside the train car, “Hello? Is everything alright in there?”

“Well,” Arthur secured his hat on his head, giving himself a quick check-over in case he missed some spots if the knife hit him, pleased when there weren’t any. “I don’t think he’s dead — think I won the fight,”

He grabbed the Anderson and hauled him over his shoulder, grunting at the man’s weight. Archibald opened the train car’s door and checked the man, whose face was bloodied but identifiably nonetheless. He followed Archibald as he led them back to Rhodes, where the sheriff’s office was, the man talking the entire way and not picking up on  _ any _ of Arthur’s hints telling him to shut up. He got a wonderful history lesson out of the ride, a bit too much history, Arthur wondering why the man was a deputy when he probably should’ve been some teacher in a schoolhouse. But he got  _ some _ good information out of it, hidden within the other meaningless nonsense that served no purpose.

There were two families: the Grays, who — according to Archibald — were fine people who owned half of the establishments in town, ran the local law enforcement, and were far more civilized than the other big-wig family in these parts; the Braithwaites. They were “awful people, truly awful” and had been in some kind of deep-rooted feud with the Grays. It was a contentious history that Arthur hoped wouldn’t stir up any trouble for the gang, but knowing Dutch, he’d already found some way to work one of the families over; it seemed that by helping catch the Anderson boys, they’d already gotten started.

Rhodes was a small, dusty town full of average people and generic backstory, which Archibald knew intimately of course. There were the usual amenities — a general store, gunsmith, post office, those sorts of things — surrounded by some sound houses and a fancy-looking saloon. Arthur had been in worse towns, and Rhodes didn’t seem too bad; hopefully they didn’t end up shooting this one to all hell, too.

Dutch and Hosea were waiting for them, sorting out some kind of trade for Trelawny’s release, who made a big show of his “gratitude” and how it had all been one giant “misunderstanding.” Josiah let them in on some of his antics, reiterating that rocky history between the town’s two prominent families and planting a couple schemes into Dutch’s head. Hosea could work these people over like a fiddle, of which Arthur had no doubt, and Dutch asked them to poke around for a bit. Josiah also mentioned bounties on their heads — nothing new, of course, but they were sizable ones that he’d caught wind of from some bounty hunters on the state line. Mentioned “super agents” and got a nice laugh from Dutch. 

Eventually, Trelawny took his leave, heading in the direction of a caravan full of oddballs that he rented a spot with. As Hosea and Dutch lead the three of them back into town, Dutch immediately went into action revealing the new plan, one Arthur had been expecting but kind of been nervous about hearing. There was something off about the town, like everyone knew something except the three of them, and Arthur didn’t like it.

“Okay, so these two plantation families…” He nodded at Arthur, who was walking beside him with his hands tucked into his pockets. “Arthur, you start sniffing around the Grays’ place, see what the story is there,”

“Yeah, I passed by it earlier with our friend Archibald,” Arthur winced as a bit of dust flew into his mouth, inciting a small cough that made his tongue taste like dirt.

“Good. Hosea, you see what you can find out about these Braithwaites,”

“Alright,”

“Would you look who it is,” Dutch suddenly said, Arthur following his gaze to the familiar steed hitched up beside the general store, his rider dismounting and turning at the sound of her name. “Miss Rivera!”

Robin looked much better than she had the night previously, the rest must’ve done her some good. She looked up from a piece of paper in her hand and lifted a hand in greeting, giving the men a small smile. “Mister Van der Linde, fancy seeing you three here,”

“And shouldn’t you be resting?” Hosea eyed her arm, the injury hidden beneath the long sleeves of her button-up, his voice somewhat patronizing.

She chuckled, raising her arm and flexing her fingers. “I’ve been through much worse, Mister Matthews, anyways,” She lifted the piece of paper, in which a list was written in the scraggly handwriting Arthur recognized as Pearson’s. “Figured I’d grab some things for y’all,”

Dutch laughed. “Grimshaw already breathing down your neck, I see,”

“That obvious?” She folded up the piece of paper and stuffed it back into the pockets of her trousers. “Anyway, I won’t disturb you boys,”

“Oh you couldn’t be a disturbance even if you  _ tried _ , Miss Rivera,” Dutch said, turning on that signature charm.

Robin laughed softly, waving a pair of fingers at them in departure before she headed into the store, Arthur wondering if she was as rattled by the swamp experience as he had been. Regardless, Dutch snatched him away from his thoughts as he clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Quite a fishin’ trip,” Arthur muttered.

“There’s still time,” Dutch responded, patting Arthur’s shoulder before lazing his hands on his gun belt. “I’m up for it,”

“How ‘bout you, Arthur?” Hosea gave Arthur a friendly look. “Or have you had enough of the chase for one day?”

After everything that had happened, both today and otherwise, Arthur really needed some time doing normal,  _ boring _ things. He didn’t remember the last time it had just been the three of them, doing something that didn’t involve shooting or lying or fighting. As the gang grew, its needs became more demanding, and each of them had been too busy doing other things to spend some quality time together. He wouldn’t say it aloud, but he missed the two of them, so he accepted.

And so, they went fishing, ended up “borrowing” a boat someone had forgotten about. And as Arthur rowed it out into the lake, he felt as if all his heavy thoughts had been left on the shore. He’d forgotten about moments like this, periods where he didn’t have to worry and allowed himself to relax. So much had happened that had forced him to focus on survival over comfort — on keeping people alive rather than connecting with them. He had the soft touch of the fishing pole in his hands, the gentle sway of the boat beneath his boots, and the two people he cared about most on either side. If each and every day could have been like that, talking about nothing but fish and the years that had gone by, Arthur could’ve died happy right then and there.

But yes, they had other things to worry about, but now wasn’t the time. Hosea had started going on about a man he’d met fishing one time, Dutch brought up that one time when Arthur was hardly an adult and had been too terrible at fishing to catch good bass — so he’d bought them instead, and then Hosea had started up a song and the high of a good time had forced Arthur into singing along with him. The three were acting like glee fools, and it felt  _ good _ , especially after he and Robin had nearly died in the swamp just one night ago.

By the time Arthur had rowed them to the shore alongside Clement’s Point, his hands felt like sandpaper and his shoulders were aching. Hosea had a sack full of good fish that would make nice eating sometime tonight, Dutch was placated a bit longer and already diving back into his thoughts, and Arthur was ready to pass out into a dreamless sleep and face whatever the morning had in store. He had to handle some things beforehand, though.

It was beginning to get dark, the sky fading into a deep grey as night drifted closer. Quickly checking his pocket watch, Arthur found the time to be close to six, later than he’d been expecting; they must’ve spent quite some time out there in the water. Sleep tugged at him eagerly but Arthur ignored it pointedly. Camp was still bustling with activity — things always needed to be done, regardless of the time or place. He unconsciously found himself looking for her and quickly caught sight of her near the edge of camp, sitting on a log facing the lake with her rifle across her legs, running a rag along the barrel.

“How’s the arm?” Arthur asked, grimacing slightly when she jerked in surprise.

Robin blinked up at him, squinting against the final rays of sunlight stubbornly hanging on the horizon. “Oh, it’s fine. Need something?”

Arthur scratched at his neck, suddenly feeling a bit nervous asking her. “You, um, you wanna talk?”

“Everything alright?” She eyed him curiously, not suspiciously, but not lacking concern either. It made him feel a bit odd, wondering if his desire to talk to her had become something of a nuisance; Robin was certainly too kind to tell him to fuck off, so that was entirely a possibility.

“Sure, just… askin’,”

She shook her head, a small smile on her face as she returned the cloth to her rifle, resuming her cleaning. “I’m  _ fine _ , Arthur, if it’s the swamp you’re asking about,”

“I mean… not  _ entirely _ ,” Arthur responded, feeling that instinct to mentally sew his mouth shut, that familiar reluctance to keep speaking and instead throw a departing comment her way. Arthur didn’t have a problem being honest, but he had a problem being…  _ sincere _ . He could confront the truth head-on without any hesitation, but when it came to saying it out loud, he struggled against so hard it was almost a physical reaction.

“I’ve noticed something about you, Arthur,” Her words aren’t accusing, spoken with a casual magnanimity that sounds  _ anything _ but accusing, and yet Arthur’s mind takes it as an accusation all the same.

“What?”

She flips the rifle in her hands, beginning to clean its other side. “You think for other people,”

He gave her a confused look. “That don’t make any sense,”

“Yeah, you’re right,” She carefully ran the cloth across the rifle’s scope, hands moving with the familiarity of someone who has held such a gun in their hands many times before. “I guess what I’m saying is… you worry more than you need to,”

“Huh,”

“I don’t mean it in a  _ bad _ way,” She quickly remedies, looking at Arthur’s raised eyebrow in uncharacteristic uncertainty. “Just — I’m sorry, I’m being… weird — and kind of rude, so,”

Arthur lowered himself onto the log beside her, Robin eyeing him warily. “You ain’t done nothin’ wrong,”

She scoffed. “Really?”

He shrugged, watching Robin’s hands as she ran the cloth along the rifle, noting the odd little scars she had on her fingers. “Bein’ honest, which I appreciate, you know,”

She didn’t respond for a second, her brow furrowed in thought, and when she spoke her words were steady. “I’m not used to being in a group like this, with so many people who kind of give a shit about me,”

“‘Kind of?’” Arthur chuckled. “You’ve made somethin’ of an impression on a lot of these folks, Robin,”

“Guess that’s what I’m afraid of,” She sighed, tucking away the cloth and leaning her rifle against the log. He let her hesitate for a moment, waiting patiently like she had done plenty of conversations ago. “The last people I ran with were my brothers and their tag-alongs, and that ended terribly. Ran alone for a while, years, and I’m kind of someone who works better with others,”

“I’ve seen it,”

Robin nodded, gazing down at her hands, looking sad in a way that made Arthur feel kind of lost. “I guess what I’m saying is, well, I like you folk and…”

She trailed off, but Arthur found himself understanding nonetheless. She was like him in that way; she wanted to protect people, especially the few good ones that remained in the world. And while not everyone in the Van der Linde gang could be considered upstanding human beings, plenty of them were, and Arthur knew that was one of the reasons he was so hell-bent on keeping them safe.

Robin hadn’t been with them long, but she’d integrated herself near-seamlessly into the lot of them. She was like them in more ways than one — ways that went beyond being a fine outlaw; she was idealistic in the way Dutch was, honest like Charles, considerate like Mary-Beth, hell she was even stubborn like Bill. She was just the kind of person the gang consisted of, and she came at a time that was both perfect and somewhat inconvenient. Blackwater had not only left them short handed, but depleted, and Robin served as a breath of fresh air they needed as well as the extra gun their plans called for.

But it was almost like she’d been with them longer, and maybe that fact was what scared her so much. Her brothers had done something to leave her distrustful and weary, hidden beneath all the kindness and candor, and it became clear in the moments where she was alone. He saw that loneliness, the kind that appeared even when around dozens of people who enjoyed your company; Arthur knew it well. It was a kind of loneliness that didn’t make much sense, that lurked in the shadows and waited until the moment you felt uncertain about yourself. Arthur had seen it on the streets after his father had been hung, in the trees while he hunted for camp, even back on the shore while he went fishing with Dutch and Hosea; it was a longing for something more.

Arthur wasn’t sure what compelled him to do it, but he found himself placing a hand on her knee, as soft as he could and in a comforting way. “You ain’t been with us long, but, we’re here,”

He could almost see that loneliness fade from her eyes, that brilliant green saying more than her words ever could. She put a hand on the one he had placed in her knee, her palm the smooth touch of working hands, but the light weight of a careful touch. “Thank you, Arthur,”

He didn’t let his touch linger, worried the gesture would make her uncomfortable, so he slowly removed his hand and returned it to his side. He was glad that the silence that expanded after was amicable, lacking any tension or awkwardness Arthur had found himself fearing. The sun was almost set now, the beginnings of night finally making itself known, and Arthur finally allowed that exhaustion to settle in; his eyes were heavy and his shoulders ached from the rowing.

Robin stood up, grabbing her rifle and slinging it over her shoulder. “Gonna head into Rhodes,”

She was waiting to see if he’d stop her, but Arthur had no plans to. “Alright, then. Good night, Robin,”

She gave him a small smile before making her way over to the horses. “Night, Arthur,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter one and something of a transition chapter. My chapters are also not beta read and I usually write on my phone, so I'm sure some wonderful typos can be found in here somewhere ;)


	10. Clemens Point [3] | The Course of True Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur spots a familiar face in Rhodes; women are a force to be reckoned with.

About two weeks passed.

And for each day that made them up, Arthur had been busy as all hell.

Micah came back on his own, having gotten too bored or impatient waiting for Arthur’s assistance that he ended up robbing that banking coach by himself. He came back with a couple hundred dollars for the gang — not as much as he should’ve gotten from such a job — an assortment of bruises that signally that not everything had gone according to plan, and a newfound smugness that didn’t make much sense, considering he’d both failed to execute a job that couldn’t have been too hard and had needed to be broken out of jail yet again. His arrival wasn’t celebrated, the unsteady relationship he had with most, if not all, of the gang’s members making itself known when no one brought out any beers and Swanson kept his singing to himself. It was a stark contrast to Sean’s return, and it made his distaste amongst them alarmingly apparent; Dutch chose to ignore it, of course, but was positively beaming when Micah returned with the money and in relatively one piece.

However, Dutch had been too busy himself to even acknowledge Micah properly, his elaborate scheme to scam the Grays and the Braithwaites finally having come to fruition. It was impressive, overshadowing the harsh possibility that it might end up detonating in their faces, but Hosea was taking point as well, meaning Dutch didn’t get too reckless and the pieces stayed relatively intact. It landed Arthur with a deputy’s badge, the gang with a giant wagon of moonshine they had no idea what to do with (other than drink it but Hosea was adamant that people not touch the potent, backwater swamp brews), and Arthur a newfound spot in the Gray’s hierarchy. He usually wasn’t as involved in such schemes, the ones that required acting and manipulation, which were commonly left to people who were better at lying and pretending — Hosea, Dutch, and occasionally Lenny, who could make it big as an actor if he truly wanted to — but he’d been thrown into the deep end and now he was stuck struggling to swim.

He helped a squirrely black man named Alphonse Renaud, a doctor who’d he’d encountered on the outskirts of Rhodes, looking absolutely defeated and Arthur couldn’t ignore someone with such an expression. He turned out to be a doctor, his wagon stolen by some backwater swamp dwellers who probably didn’t even know what they were stealing. Arthur knew how people like Doctor Renaud struggled — he’d been present plenty of times with Tilly and Lenny — and it never made much sense to him. He never felt such inclinations himself; he hated everyone just the same, regardless of skin color. Nevertheless, he went and got that man’s wagon, because lord knows the world needs doctors, and it didn’t matter if that doctor were black or white, male or female, operating out of a wagon or a house. Alphonse had given him a recipe for a potent health cure as a reward, even though Arthur had planned on helping him whether or not he got something in return.

Rhodes also housed a drunkard he’d passed several times outside of the train station, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him one day, and he’d finally gone up to him. Perhaps he was nosy — god knows he was bored — but the man proved to be more trouble than he was worth. The man’s name was Jeremiah Compson, his clothes covered in dirt and smelling of must, a bottle in his hand and the scent alcohol emitting off of him in harsh waves. He’d been banned from his home that had been seized by the bank, fired from a job that didn’t need him anymore, and had asked him to grab some of his belongings before almost barfing onto Arthur’s boots. Arthur subsequently spent a day entering the house and uncovering its history, which revealed itself to be twisted and bloody. He’d helped the man out of kindness, but after he found the shackles in the cellar and the names written like livestock in that ledger, Arthur had really wished he’d let the man rot on that bench.

He’d wanted to kill him — he deserved to die, men who did what he did — but perhaps it had been more brutal to let him waste away in a world that hated men like him; his family certainly did, judging by the letters he’d found in the house’s rotting remains. So, Arthur had left him by that little camp he’d constructed, letting him sob over the remnants of a life that had been morbidly successful, one that must’ve given him some sick satisfaction and an unrighteous sense of glory. Death would’ve been a mercy, and Arthur wasn’t going to give it to him. He weighed on his thoughts so heavily that Arthur ended up spending almost two days out hunting, focusing on the wilderness around him instead of the harsh reality that waged outside of it. Had that made merely been deluded? Or taught the wrong values? It brought questions about Arthur’s own sense of morality that made him feel lost.

At Dutch’s request, Arthur started poking around, prodding for information and stumbling upon something that could serve useful in the future; Penelope Braithwaite and Beau Gray. They were young, foolish, and hopelessly in love, and that combination was asking to be used. Arthur found Beau on the outskirts of Caliga Hall, looking wistful and kind of dumb. He reminded Arthur of some silly prettyboy from the novels Mary-Beth wrote, alarmingly close to the characters within the pages, complete with the flowing hair and the “dreamy look in his eyes.” But Beau seemed the most sensible out of these two families, understanding the stupidity behind a blow feud buried so heavily behind a violent history that no one knew the reasons behind it anymore; he wanted out, and Arthur felt inclined — both from a business and a moral standing — to help.

Arthur ended up as a messenger. It wasn’t the oddest of roles he’s found himself in nor the most difficult, but it was still far from what he had been expecting. Beau had shoved a letter and a tiny box with a bow into his hands, asking for him to sneak on the Braithwaites’ property and give them to Penelope, who would be expecting them. Arthur had to admit, he wouldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been for Beau’s promise of payment; it was both because he hated being a workhorse when he could be doing more important things, and because the Grays had money they would most certainly be sending his way — Arthur didn’t do foolish favors like message-passing for free, that’s for sure.

It was easy, a matter of sneaking in and out of the property without being seen. He took the back way, staying close to the shore and entering from the servants’ housings, where guards weren’t wasted and he could easily scope the area out before rushing in. Arthur wasn’t the best at stealth, but even he could sneak around open fields without being seen, especially when he crouched down next to the water with guards who didn’t want to get their feet wet.

Penelope was, predictably, beautiful, and just as hopelessly in love as Beau was. It was strange, knowing that such a girl belonged to a family full of murderers and bastards, just like it was odd that a boy like Beau was a member or people as cold as the Grays. He’d found that as she welcomed him to a glass of lemonade and ranted fervently about the monsters that made up her family that Arthur wanted to see these two out of it. She was controlled by her family’s obligations and Beau was bound to his family’s reputation, the pair of them perfect outliers amongst people lost to history. They were “suck in the Dark Ages,” Penelope has said, and Arthur felt inclined to agree. But it made him nervous, too, because Arthur knew enough about history to know that people in the Dark Ages listened a lot better to beheadings than reason. The pair shared the not-so-subtle desire to see their respective families rot, and if that wasn’t enough to link the two together, what else would?

She gave him a letter to bring back to Beau, which wasn’t much trouble but it made Arthur feel like an errand boy again. He wasn’t about to say no, though, not after she’d given him a taste of some of the best lemonade Arthur had ever had, and when she’d been so respectful. He considered going straight to Beau, but he figured a quick stop at camp wouldn’t be too much of a hassle, if only to fill Dutch in on his findings and to check in on Hosea, who had dove into the whole Gray-Braithwaite scheme head-first.

He’d made a pit stop in Rhodes, first, needing to grab some ammunition from the gunsmith; he was riding through the town anyways, and Arthur was always a fan of killing two birds with one stone. Arthur had overheard some of the townspeople gossiping about the shop’s owner — a balding man with long hair and a poorly groomed mustache — and Arthur had to admit that the man was odd. He didn’t treat Arthur in any way for him to have viable reasoning for that judgement, but something in the way the man spoke made Arthur suspicious; he was awfully chatty as Arthur browsed the catalogue, even more so when he pulled out the ammunition Arthur requested. He was nervous for reasons Arthur couldn’t tell, but Arthur had more important matters to attend to, yet he took a mental note to nose around later; he probably had valuables he was worried might get stolen.

Arthur was brushing off his interaction with the gunsmith when he spotted a familiar face across the road, poorly drawn on a piece of yellowing paper and pinned to the board outside the Sheriff Gray’s office. He felt his stomach lurch when he saw the name written in bold letters, a name he’d grown awfully familiar with in the past few months.

_ ROBIN RIVERA _ was written in the harsh bolded font favored for wanted posters, a crude sketch of her that was somewhat recognizable below her name. Whoever had recorded the description left out some things — the scar on her temple, her eye color, her short height — and it served in her favor. Arthur was no stranger to seeing familiar faces on wanted posters, just like he was used to seeing his own unflattering drawing on the parchment, but he hadn’t expected to see Robin’s hung up so soon. She’d mentioned her bounty down in Mexico, but that was thousands of miles away and a different country, for God’s sake. What was surprising was how much they were asking for;  _ one thousand dollars _ , dead or alive. It was rather impressive; wanted for murder, unlawful killing, theft, the usual things — but then there was bank robbery and arson, leaving Arthur rather curious.

But what really got his attention was the poster next to hers.

They looked awfully similar, even through the weird filter that always casted people in odd lights whenever their faces were sketched. Rodrigo Rivera had much more “creative” crimes than Robin did, and Arthur had no doubt the severity of them had contributed to the mind-boggling price on his head;  _ eight thousand dollars _ , only a couple thousand less than Dutch’s.  _ RODRIGO RIVERA _ , notorious outlaw, wanted for crimes against Mexico and savagery — Arthur didn’t even know they put “savagery” on wanted posters. Arthur might’ve been biased, but the man looked nasty; curly hair that fell around narrowed eyes, fair skin that was supposedly scarred around the neck, and if his description was anything to go off of, he was tall and burly and could probably snap a neck with one hand if he wanted to. His last known whereabouts were unknown, just like Robin’s, judging by the lack of any location provided on their posters. It was both a blessing and a curse; Robin had disappeared effectively, meaning no one would be able to come and collect the bounty anytime soon, but it seemed Rodrigo had as well — and Robin wouldn’t be pleased to have  _ that _ confirmation thrown her way.

He folded the posters up and stuffed them into his satchel, quickly making his way over to Aegean’s spot hitched outside the gunsmith and got moving. Arthur didn’t know the intimates of Robin and her brother, only that the man wasn’t stable, had violent tendencies — confirmed by his bounty poster, at least — and had clearly done something to warrant such volatile hatred. He saw it in Sadie whenever the O'Driscolls were brought up, but it was far more wild than Mrs. Adler’s, unrestrained and unchecked. It was an anger that made chills go down his spine, the kind of fury that could stop a train or stab a man in the neck. There were times where Arthur questioned whether or not Robin was like her brother, but as soon as the thought entered his mind, he immediately felt ashamed.

Robin had treated all of them with a kindness that couldn’t be found often. It was a genuine softness and warmth that couldn’t be faked, even by the best of actors. That kind of genuineness wasn’t something that someone could just pretend to have, it asked for actual compassion that Robin had shown plenty of times across the days she’d been with them. He’d seen it when she’d taken care of the Reverend, whenever Jack came up to her, during those moments where Arthur allowed himself to be vulnerable and she’d simply  _ listen _ ; it was pure, unadulterated kindness that was so rare it might as well not exist — it couldn’t possibly be a con.

Javier shouted at him as he rode into camp, Arthur throwing a tease at the man when he raised the repeater at him. He was about to keep going when a thought occurred to him. Pulling Aegean to a halt, he turned to face the man, who was eyeing him curiously.

“Hey, Javier? You ever hear of the Riveras down in Mexico?” He asked, not sure what kind of answer he was looking for.

Javier lowered the repeater, holding it lazily in his hands as he leaned back against a sturdy tree behind him, assuming a pensive look. Arthur knew the man had a rough past in Mexico, which was one of the main reasons he left for America, and he didn’t talk about it very often. “Sure, you haven’t?”

Arthur chuckled. “I barely know what’s goin’ on  _ here _ , let alone in another  _ country _ ,”

Javier shared a laugh for a moment. “Yes, well, I heard of them — The Rivera Brothers, mostly, not Robin, though,”

“What do you know about this Rodrigo?” Arthur inquired, curious more than anything, but also uncertain. He hoped Robin’s bias was making her opinions of the man far stronger than the reality, that maybe  _ savagery _ didn’t run in the family, but Javier’s apprehensive look erased any of that hope.

“Well, I know he was the leader, I guess,” Javier said, running a hand across his chin as he thought for a moment. “They called him a  _ terrorista  _ — why aren’t you asking Robin this?”

Arthur shrugged. “Just wonderin’ about your side of things,”

“Well, he wasn’t…  _ good… _ even by my standards,” Javier said, eyes drifting across the little thicket around them, as if expecting Robin to come bursting from the trees at any moment. “He was a, um…. tyrant? I’m not sure, but he did the outlaw things we do. He robbed a lot of banks, at least, that’s where a lot of the attention came from,”

“Attention?”

“Yes — newspapers, those sorts of things,” Javier shrugged. “Killed a lot, and not in…  _ simple _ ways, if that makes sense,”

Arthur nodded. “Alright, just curios. Catch you later then, Javier,”

“Oh, if you’re looking for Robin she went fishing with Kieran,” When Arthur gave him a surprised look, Javier chuckled. “I couldn’t tell you,  _ amigo _ , but follow the coastline and you’ll find them,”

Arthur gave the man a quick wave before turning Aegean around and heading towards the water, even more questions jumping around in his mind. Robin had talked to him about Rodrigo plenty of times, but he sensed the bad blood between them — memories that probably didn’t want to be remembered — and he’d always touched the topic lightly. But a man with an eight thousand dollar bounty on his head doesn’t just pop out of his mouth with that kind of price, and there was no doubt that he’d at least rattled Mexico to an extent that he’d be worth that much  _ dead _ . Arthur stopped himself from jumping to conclusions; Robin was trustworthy, and regardless of what her brother got up to, that would still be the case.

It was clear Robin was getting antsy; there was no other explanation for her opting to go fishing with “Not an O’Driscoll” over anything else. And yes, Kieran was a decent kid, but he didn’t make the best company, what with his stuttering and the tension in his every movement that still showed he was scared shitless of them all. Robin could be intimidating if she wanted to be, and considering Kieran had probably watched her kill a couple men brutally back at Six Point Cabin, the kid knew just how easy Robin could slit his throat. While Robin was warm and approachable, she was still a killer like the rest of them.

Following the coastline quickly led him to the pair of them, Armadillo munching on some plant by the water and the decent little mare Branwen some ways away from him; the gelding must’ve bitten the other horse and now she was distancing herself from him. Regardless, he spotted Kieran by the shore, Robin holding the fishing pole in her hands while the boy pointed and spoke — Arthur could hear that perpetual wavering in his words from several paces away. The pair looked up as Arthur approached, sharing similar expressions of surprise, except Kieran looked like he was anticipating some kind of scolding as Arthur dismounted.

“Butterin’ him up before we drown him, Robin?” Arthur said, Kieran’s eyes almost popping out his head as he fell head-first into the tease. Poor kid was so easy to mess with, easier than Sean was, except he didn’t bite back like the Irish fool did.

Robin shook her head, an amused look on her face as she returned her gaze to the bobber floating lazily on the lake. “Mister Duffy here is quite the fisherman,”

Arthur eyed Kieran quizzically, who looked as tense as ever but had sensed enough safety to meet Arthur’s gaze. “That so?”

“Y-yes, sir,” Arthur tried not to wince at Kieran’s choice in words, or how unsteady his voice was, the uncertainty over whether or not he should speak evident in his stutter. “Miss Rivera ain’t gone fishin’ before, so I thought…”

“He’s a good teacher,” Robin said, giving the boy a smile, who wilted under the gesture. “Knows his stuff,”

Kieran rocked on the heels of his feet, a tiny flush on his face. Easy to embarrass, easy to tease, easy to fluster… the kid was a social mess, even more so than John, who couldn’t even open a door without managing to insult someone nearby. “Y-Yeah, well, my pappy taught me most of what I know? Lost him and my mammy when I w-was young, to cholera…”

Arthur pursed his lips against a smirk. “Your ‘mammy?’”

Robin gave him a warning look but Kieran wasn’t facing him, watching Robin’s bobbler alongside her, and he gave no acknowledgement at Arthur’s subtle teasing. “Like I said, I was r-real young. After that, I was on my own, pretty much, but I knew horses and fishin’,”

“Cholera’s a nasty thing, Kieran, I’m sorry to hear that,” Robin said, voice heavy with a sympathy Arthur somewhat understood. He’d lost his mother to sickness when he was young as well, but comfort and reassurance was most certainly not something Arthur was good at, even if they did share in a similar grief.

He tried, though, as he settled himself next to Robin, tucking his hands into his pockets and watching the fish beneath the water. “Well, just think now, you’ll never be alone again,”

They shared a moment of silence, the patience fishing required evident in the way they all stared at the bobber in the water. Arthur was contemplating taking out his own rod when the sound of whistling suddenly entered the air, stopping the hand Arthur had reaching for his satchel as he spotted a form lazily drifting across the water.

“What in the world…?” Kieran mumbled, eyeing the man in disbelief. “You seein’ this? Feller’s naked as a jaybird,”

Robin burst out laughing at the sight of a stark-naked man casually swimming across the lake, every inch of his person unclothed and alarmingly  _ naked _ . Luckily he was facing downward so his more…  _ suggestive _ portions weren’t out in clear view, but it didn’t dampen the fact any less. The man swam nonchalantly, whistling like he didn’t have a care in the world, giving no concern in regards to his nakedness despite the fact that three strangers — one of which was a  _ woman _ — were all watching him.

“Is that why you like this spot?” Arthur couldn’t hold it back, and it only made Robin laugh harder, Kieran needing to snatch the rod from her hands before she dropped it onto the shoreline. He raised the rod above his head in an attempt to prevent the man from colliding with it, and Arthur shouted at the dumbass swimming in the lake, “Hey, watch the line!”

He spoke too clearly to be drunk, so maybe he was just crazy? Regardless, he shouted amicably, “Woah, hey! I nearly gulped down a minnow!”

The entire situation had to be one of the most bizarre things Arthur had ever experienced, and he’d encountered some odd things in his travels; the Night Folk in this damn swamps, a man who thought he was a wolf over by Annesburg, weird rock drawings (and that weird man who wanted their locations, for whatever reason). Now he could add a man swimming naked across a lake full of fish with teeth, teeth that might be attracted to… certain things.

He’d heard Robin laugh like this a couple times, where she wasn’t entirely laughing but sort of wheezing, and it was infectious. The man stopped his breaststroke — Arthur wasn’t familiar with the unnecessary amount of names used to describe swimming, but that seemed close enough — and started treading water, giving them a giant smile that only furthered Arthur’s suspicion that he was drunk.

“Sorry, fellers, and… lady,” He cleared his throat and Arthur thought he saw his face redden a few shades. “Didn’t see you there! Why don’t you take a break, come on in. The water’s  _ wonderful _ !”

Hell no.

Kieran was baffled into speechlessness and Robin was too busy recollecting herself, the man not garnering a response. Arthur wasn’t sure what to say himself but the man continued for him. “You here for some fishing?”

Arthur considered antagonizing him but figured the man was too friendly for that, so he merely said, “We hope to. You haven’t scared ‘em all away, have you?”

Arthur already knew he’d scattered the fish for miles, probably, and maybe the man knew that as well. He was quiet for a moment but quickly recovered. “Oh just so you fellers know… and lady… there are some real big ones over that way—“ He pointed to his left before raising his other hand and gesturing. “Like  _ this _ ,” The action made him bob under the water for a moment as he stopped keeping himself afloat. “Well, I better keep the blood pumping. Hope you gents, and lady, catch something?”

“Yeah? Maybe we’ll take a look, thanks,” Arthur called after him as it resumed his swimming. 

Kieran rapidly reeled in the line before the man could swim into it and tangle himself. Robin was still smirking extravagantly, face a bit flushed from the amount of breath she’d lost laughing. Kieran collapsed the rod and started making his way towards Branwen, saying, “I know where that is. Come on, let’s go!”

He sounded excited and Arthur couldn’t decline, especially considering Kieran rarely acknowledged him with anything other than heavy caution and a bit of fear. Robin, who seemed surprisingly interested in the rather boring pursuit that was fishing, whistled for Armadillo from his spot a bit too far from the other horses. He showed his reluctance to leave whatever delicious plant he’d been chewing to the roots, but he made his way over regardless. Arthur hadn’t seen a horse as expressive as that bastard before. He gave Aegean a couple pats before he mounted, Kieran already eagerly settling into Branwen’s saddle and heading towards the spot.

Robin coughed softly into her elbow and Arthur couldn’t help asking, “You alright?”

She laughed, nudging Armadillo forward and falling into line behind Kieran. “I haven’t laughed like that in  _ forever _ . What a peculiar man,”

The posters in his satchel suddenly felt heavy, and Arthur immediately knew he should address them later; he didn’t want to ruin this moment for either of them. Robin had been busy herself; she’d robbed a house with Sean, a stagecoach alongside Bill and Karen — who she seemed to have been developing a fast friendship with — and had been knocked into chores by Grimshaw once the woman realized what a jack of all trades she was, sewing with rapid precision and fixing holes that probably couldn’t have fixed otherwise. But she was settling in nicely, integrating herself into the gang seamlessly, obviously familiar with the basic gang dynamic that she fell into line easily. Dutch had obviously decided she was trustworthy by now, even with the rocky troubles she had with her brother, who had seemed to be meddling with affairs Dutch had his own opinions regarding. 

Anyways, Arthur found he didn’t have to worry about her being at camp without him as a buffer. She knew how to handle Micah, who had bothered her rather effectively soon after arriving at camp and spotting the new member. Pearson had learned his lesson after Sadie snapped on him and didn’t force feed her “women’s chores,” Arthur knowing Robin wouldn’t hesitate to put him in his place, not one to really settle in the role of a “lady.” She’d proven to be good with Jack, which had been something of a surprise, considering her somewhat rough edges signaling she might not be the best with kids. But she treated him like he wasn’t a little boy, and it had clicked with Jack, yet it resulted in him starting to target her like that phase he’d gone through with Sean just a few months prior to Blackwater; Jack was very interested in people — they hadn’t quite decided if that was a good thing or not.

Arthur found himself wondering what she’d been doing prior to meeting them, other than hunting down her brother, of course. She hadn’t confirmed it, but she hadn’t exactly been living a quiet life before this, if her poster and her skills had anything to say about it. Bank robbery? Arson? It didn’t concern him, of course — plenty of the Van der Linde gang had lists consisting of worse and much more — but it had left him curious. She was hesitant about her past but maybe he could get some stories out of her.

It was a short ride; they probably could’ve walked and saved the horses the trouble. It didn’t seem much different than where they were before, but Arthur could see the fish beneath the water, some moderate schools of them. He saw some bluegill and pickerel, a bit larger than what he’d spotted before.

“I think this is the place that naked feller was talkin’ about,” Kieran said, and not even a couple seconds before he spoke the words, one of the biggest bluegill Arthur had ever seen bursted from the water. It’s colorful scales caught the light for a moment, undoubtedly a bluegill, and then Kieran was full of excitement. “Did you see that amazin’ bluegill?”

Arthur chuckled. “Sure! That got you real excited, huh?”

Kieran dismounted Branwen, already taking out his fishing pole and making his way to the coastline. Arthur traded an amused look with Robin before following him, leaving Aegean unhitched so she could find snacks in the grasses; Aegean wasn’t dumb enough to eat something poisonous, so he didn’t have to worry about that. 

They gathered by the coastline, and Arthur gestured at his fishing rod, offering it to Robin. But she shook her head, giving a smile in thanks yet saying, “Naw, I’m too much of a rookie for these kind of fish,”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, anyways,” She started taking her boots off, peeling away her socks and rolling her pant legs up. She lowered herself on the dry part of the coastline and dipped her feet into the water, sighing. “Fishing makes me  _ drowsy _ ,”

Arthur laughed quietly before Kieran called in his direction, “You won’t catch much if you don’t cast a line!”

Rolling his eyes humorously at Kieran’s eagerness, Arthur pulled out a lure tucked away in his satchel and hooked it up. A bluegill like that might go for the little things typical panfish went for — cheese or bread — but it would most likely be looking for something a bit more filling. Arthur doubted they’d catch it, unique and larger fish like that tended to acquire unique appetites, but there was no point not trying if they were fishing for fun anyways.

There was a period of amicable silence, Kieran clearly softening up to the pair of them. Arthur hooked a couple fish, the kid brightening and getting all excited when they proved to put up a nice fight, but they were only smallmouth bass that Arthur thought were too small to keep, tossing them back into the lake. Kieran caught a nice bluegill and there was a moment where it looked like the one that had jumped, but it wasn’t, and Kieran tossed it back as well.

Robin had leaned back, hands tucked behind her neck as she watched the coulda drift across a clear sky. “Better than a tree, isn’t it, Kieran?”

“I’m still a prisoner, Robin,” She turned and faced him, Arthur sneaking a glance as well and catching the solemn look on his face. “I can’t step outside camp by myself for a second without bein’ terrified one of Colm’s is gonna pick me up. When I’m in camp I got Bill and Sadie whisperin’ in my ear all the time, how they’re gonna kill me in my sleep. It’s like livin’ in a  _ nightmare _ ,”

Arthur felt bad admitting that he’d seen it and done nothing to stop it. Sadie harbored a deep hatred for the O’Driscolls that was entirely warranted — they’d killed her husband and tore apart her life — and there wasn’t much he could do to lessen that. Bill most likely tormented Kieran just to see his reactions, the kid still terrified of him putting those gelding tongs to his parts despite being mostly part of the gang now. But Kieran wasn’t the most confident of people, submissive and hardly able to defend himself against the taunting. Bill wouldn’t hesitate to get mean if Kieran mouthed back and Sadie might even hit him. 

Arthur didn’t understand exactly what Kieran was experiencing, but he knew what it was like to get knocked around; he’d experienced plenty of that during the few years he’d been on the streets after his father died. Arthur had suspicions the kid was treated like shit when he was with the O’Driscolls, and it seemed unfair for that treatment to continue. The least he could do was help dampen the taunting, maybe redirect Bill and find Sadie other things to be angry about.

He sighed, giving his lure a little jig as he slowly reeled it in. “Just… stay away from Bill if you can. He’s a right bastard when he’s bored. And Mrs. Adler, well, ain’t much that can be done about  _ that _ ,”

“She’s not mad at  _ you _ ,” Robin said, returning her back to the ground and relaxing again. “She’s using the fact that you  _ used _ to be an O’Driscoll to… voice her opinions about all of them. They killed her husband, you know, and grief can be confusing,”

“I know,” Kieran said, sighing and reeling in his line. “I think I’m goin’ to head back to camp, Arthur. I-If that’s okay?”

“Sure, go on,” Arthur replied, Kieran nodding and making his way to Branwen. “I’ll see you later,”

Robin waved from her spot on the ground and Kieran gave one of those nervous smiles where it might’ve been a grimace instead. He untethered Branwen from the tree she was tied to and headed back towards camp, leaving just Arthur and Robin by the coastline.

That was one thing that he liked about being with Robin; he didn’t feel pressured into filling the silence between them. But it was quiet mostly because Arthur was hesitating, debating if he should show her the posters now, and he eventually settled on doing so. It was better to maybe be away from camp and from the others whom she might not be comfortable talking in front of, especially about her brother. People tended to eavesdrop at camp, consciously and unconsciously, the proximity and occasional boredom making it perfect to do so.

Forsaking the bluegill, Arthur reeled in his line and disassembled his fishing pole, tucking it away in his satchel. Robin looked up at the activity and made a motion to stand up, but Arthur quickly joined her on the shore, and she settled back into his prone position.

Might as well get it over with. He reached into his satchel and brought out the posters, Robin watching curiously as he unfolded them. “Got somethin’ you need to see,”

“Uh oh,”

He handed the one of her first, worry leaking into her expression as she looked at the crude drawing of her, reading the information with a narrowed gaze. He let her for a moment, watching as she gnawed nervously at her lip, before she spoke with a calmness he hadn’t been expecting. “Honestly? It was only a matter of time before they headed up here,”

He couldn’t help but ask. “Arson?”

She rolled her eyes. “It was one time and it was an  _ accident _ — shit starts on fire  _ very _ easily when it’s smoldering outside,”

“Bank robbery?”

This time she scoffed. “My brothers robbed a lot of banks,  _ a lot _ , and I have a bit of a… knack, I guess? For breaking into safes, I mean,”

“Huh,”

“Yeah,” She maintained a casual tone, but Arthur could see a bit of anger in her gaze, nearing a glare as she continued to examine the paper. “He did this thing where I’d sneak in once they got the place under control, open all the safes and take the money, before shooting everyone,”

“Christ,” Arthur didn’t know what to say, and he found himself wondering how a man could just… kill people like they weren’t anything more than mosquitos landing on your arms. Executing people just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time? It really was savage.

Robin nodded solemnly, looking uncomfortable. “We — Raymund and I — hated it, but we were terrified that one day he’d shoot us along with those poor people. And, well, he was right,”

Dutch always enforced the lesson that vengeance was a fool's game, a pursuit of something that would end up in shambles, would ruin you, leave you unsatisfied. Arthur knew revenge wasn’t worth it, even if it brought a sense of sick satisfaction for a while. But as he heard more about this Rodrigo man, well, he could start to understand why Robin wanted to kill him. But it didn’t seem like it was a pursuit for vengeance, but perhaps for justice; men like Rodrigo Rivera needed to be put down.

It was more than some personal feud, a means of getting revenge. And while it was certainly that, there was a difference between killing a man who stole your horse and killing a murderer who massacred dozens of people, not out of defense or necessity, but out of the pure desire to do so.

Arthur chose that moment to take the second poster out, the one of Rodrigo, and handed it to her. She glared at the face that stared back at her and he found himself sharing a similar hatred for the man. He’d never met him, but he’d heard all he needed to know, it seemed.

“Fucking asshole,” She mumbled, harsh and sharp, bringing a hand up to her head and running her fingers through her hair. “He’s too good at disappearing…”

“Seems you are, too,” Arthur responded, getting a nod from her.

“Eight thousand dollars? Damn,”

“Maybe you should take him in after you kill him,” Arthur joked, except Robin looked up and eyed him pensively.

“I know you’re kidding, but… that may not be too bad of an idea,” She added a bit halfheartedly, “Get something good from that bastard, maybe…”

Arthur shrugged. “I mean, it’s up to you,”

Robin nodded. She was somewhat hesitant when she continued. “Do you think we could keep this quiet for a bit? At least, until I decide what to do about it,”

“‘Course,”

“Thank you,”

There was a moment of silence as he considered some things. It was still light out, only a bit past noon, and there was plenty of time to get some more things done if he pleased. He hadn’t quite finished that business with Beau…

“Wanna come with me? Gotta letter to deliver,”

She chuckled. “What, you’re a mailman now, too?”

“It certainly feels that way,”

“Who’s the letter for?”

“Beau Gray,”

Robin blinked at him. “Wait, from  _ this _ Gray family? The ones hating on the. Braithwaites?”

“Yep,”

And then she was smirking, pulling herself to her feet and moving to pull her socks back on. “This oughta be fun,”

* * *

They found Beau at the back of the property, brushing down a horse that Arthur had no doubt was a thoroughbred. He was dressed in his usual fine-pressed clothes and hair all swooped like a wave, looking like the classic Romeo he was turning out to be. Robin sniggered at the man once she saw him, making a quiet remark about him being “kitschy,” whatever  _ that _ meant. Arthur approached him, leaning against the stall door while Robin settled herself atop some stacks of feed, crossing her arms and watching the encounter unfold with poorly subdued amusement on her face.

“You got my money?” Arthur said it casually, knowing Beau was such an insistent pacifist that threats wouldn’t be needed. He tried to disguise his startle as him reaching to put the brush away, but Arthur caught it clear as day.

“Sure,” Beau reached into his pocket and pulled out some cash, which Arthur accepted without hesitation, before he asked eagerly, “Did she give anything? For me?”

“Yes,” He grabbed Penelope’s letter from his satchel, extending it out to Beau.

The boy practically snatched it from his hands, already carefully tearing the envelope to reach the letter within. “Thank you, Arthur!”

Arthur moved away from the stall door to allow the boy to exit, his eyes glued to the letter in his hands and completely ignoring Robin, despite sitting on a crate directly next to her. Arthur couldn’t help but reach forward and carefully rub the thoroughbred he assumed belonged to Beau. The horse accepted his touch amicably, very docile and friendly; it reminded him of Boadicea a little bit.

“My god…” Beau muttered. “What a woman… She's…” His voice turned worried as he read, words growing unsteady. “This’ll get her killed for sure,”

“What?”

“Women’s suffrage,” He was on his feet now. “Around here, they don’t even like  _ men _ voting,”

Robin chose that moment to chime in, still watching the scene with vague amusement. “This town doesn’t seem very  _ progressive _ ,”

“Exactly,” Beau looked up, eyeing Robin suspiciously as he finally acknowledged her. “Who are you?”

“Robin,”

“A friend,” Arthur supplied. “Figured she could help out,”

“You’re a woman—“

She scoffed. “You learn something new every day,”

Beau continued, ignoring her sarcastic quib. “Perhaps you could attend with Penelope,” He gestured to the revolver on her hip. “You certainly seem capable?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know who that is,”

“Penelope  _ Braithwaite _ !” He said, a bit of panic in his voice, but Robin nodded in understanding and he continued. “She can’t be there! This town, it’s… progress is a dirty word in these parts — unlike incest…”

“Excuse me?” Arthur said, eyeing the boy as he started to pace.

“I don’t wanna marry my cousin Matilda! I want to marry Penelope!” He was gesturing wildly, Arthur and Robin sharing a look as they let him rant while he panicked. “But they’re gonna… They’ll kill her at one of those rallies they’re holding. They’ve done it before!” He whirled around and faced them, eyes wide as he practically begged them. “You gotta help!”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t want no part of it,” Arthur responded, shrugging when Robin gave him a funny look. Arthur had already meddled in this love affair more than he’d have liked, somehow turning into Beau and Penelope’s errand boy — delivering letters and gifts — he didn’t want to add bodyguard to that list.

“I’ll pay,”

Even after those magic words, Arthur didn’t want to accept, but he found himself feeling guilty as he considered it. They were young, foolish, and it reminded him of who he’d been all those years ago with Mary. He hadn’t been provided a happy ending, but maybe these two could. They didn’t choose to be in the feud alongside their families, forced to play with the hand they’d been given, but they had the opportunity to make their own decisions and Arthur couldn’t deny them that.

“Fine,” Beau visibly relaxed at Arthur’s answer. “Just, no more runnin’ round with letters,”

“Thank you,” It came out like a gasp, full of relief and gratitude that made Arthur feel a bit awkward. “Thank you both! Come one, we’d better get going,”

Beau rushed to mount his horse, giving little warning before he’d rushed forward. He was in disaster mode, it appeared, and Arthur still couldn’t entirely see why. Maybe he was underestimating these families, what they would do to each other if given the chance, or maybe he didn’t know enough about protests to know how dangerous they got.

The thing is… if Penelope wanted to rally, they had to let her. The world was changing but not everyone was keen to progress to a new age. Arthur didn’t understand why women were still considered inferior in many different ways, as Arthur had met  _ plenty _ of women who were far more capable than most of the men he encountered — the gang was full of them. Arthur expected that one day perspectives on women would change, but he had a feeling it would take a while; sometimes time was the only way society’s views could change.

They found them quickly, catching their chanting before they spotted the wagon. There were about a dozen of them, listening eagerly to an older, elegant-looking woman Arthur assumed was the leader of the protest. Penelope stood out amongst them in her lavish dress of lace and soft blues, looking far too proper for something that might end up violent. Regardless, Beau quickly rushed over to her, clasping her hands in hers and speaking rapidly.

Arthur let them argue for a bit as he turned to face Robin, who was watching the crowd with an expression he couldn’t entirely pinpoint; astonishment, perhaps? Regardless, Beau was suddenly dragging him into the conversation, giving Arthur no choice but to involve himself. 

“Do something, please!” Beau couldn't have looked more panicked even if he tried, Penelope giving the man somewhat of an exasperated look.

“Do what? Fight this mob?” Arthur waved a hand at the group of women, all looking determined and ready to get to work. He did not want to get in their way; it would be worse than getting trampled by a herd of wild buffalo. “They’d eat me alive,”

“This is no laughing matter, sir,” He shifted to Robin, who was leaning back on her heels and looming relaxed with her fingers hooked on her gun belt. “Ma’am, please, could you go with them? They need protecting from…  _ certain elements _ ,”

“What kind of ‘elements?’” Robin asked.

“Mostly my family,”

Penelope sighed, finally submitting but perhaps not in the way Beau would’ve liked her to. “I’ll tell you what…” She gestured to Arthur. “Your friend here can drive the wagon for us and she—“ Penelope waved a hand at Robin, who eyed her curiously in return. “—can ride in the back and shoot anyone who needs shooting. It’ll allow us to shout  _ all the louder _ !”

Beau gave Arthur yet another pleading look, but Arthur had already been designated his role in all of this — Robin as well — so of course he wasn’t going to say no. “Sure, right Robin?”

“Yeah, looks fun,”

Penelope led the woman who had been conducting a speech to the women over to them. She was older with dark hair tied back in an elaborate style, her voice powerful and urgent as she extended a hand to Arthur. She gave him a firm handshake, and Arthur immediately found himself respecting her, the woman reminding him of Grimshaw and her unmovable force.

“Miss Calhoon,” Penelope said, waving a hand at Arthur and Robin. “My friend here says he can drive the wagon, and she can ride in the back and keep anyone who gets too  _ confident _ outta the way,”

“Ah,” Calhoon extended a hand to Robin, smiling warmly, practically beaming. “Olive Calhoon. I see you’re a forward thinker as well, Miss…?”

“Rivera, um, Robin Rivera,”

“It is an absolute pleasure to meet you,” She wrapped another hand around Robin’s, shaking it yet again before finally releasing her hands. “Normally I like to drive myself, but today I feel like a man joining us and a woman with a gun and trousers sends the right message!”

Arthur followed Miss Calhoon as she started towards the wagon, eager to get started. One of the women introduced herself to Robin and led her to the back of the wagon, Robin looking excited; this was certainly going to be a unique experience for the both of them.

“Well, I ain’t never been in a protest march before, madam,” Arthur admitted.

“Well, just treat us like the sheep and the folks attacking us like the wolves and I’m sure you’ll feel right at home!” She spoke with an odd kind of excitement, despite obviously being prepared to be ridiculed and roughed up by those who weren’t open to change; the usual struggles of fighting for something different, Arthur supposed.

She patted the space beside her and Arthur climbed in, Olive starting up another rallying speech as he settled in. “Alright ladies! We know our song is a good one, and we know our cause is a pure one, so let Liberty raid!”

Arthur urged the horses forward, catching sight of Beau riding alongside the wagon and a couple women running through the street as well. The women started up a chant with a tune to it, loud and powerful as the people of Rhodes turned and watched. There was a variety of expressions — amusement and annoyance stood out more than the ones who were applauding and shouting things that sounded genuinely encouraging; there weren’t many who seemed in support, though, and plenty who paid the wagon no mind.

“Take us down Main Street, right through town to the steps of the Bank of Rhodes, mister…” Miss Calhoon trailed off. “What was your name?”

“Arthur Morgan,”

“Are you an old friend of the Movement, Mister Morgan?”

He chuckled. “I'm just a driver, Miss Calhoon,”

“And the occasional messenger,” Robin said, voice tinged in a teasing tone. She was settled at the front of the wagon behind Arthur, leaning against the side and appearing relaxed, but he recognized the steadiness in her gaze that showed she was watching those around her keenly.

Miss Calhoon glanced at Robin. “Our message will be delivered  _ peaceably _ , Miss Rivera. You can keep your gun in its holster,”

“Don’t worry, ma’am, I’m not looking to shoot anyone,”

Olive nodded as they rounded the corner and entered Main Street. There were far more people as they entered the busiest portion of town, people leaning over balconies and standing in the street. It was making Arthur nervous, and judging by Robin’s now tense posture, she was sensing it too.

Miss Calhoon took it in a different direction, voice excited as she said, “Look at these people. It’s about to get exciting… I can feel it!”

“I believe you might be right,” Arthur mumbled, eyeing the growing number of observers uneasily.

As they passed the sheriff’s office, Calhoon shouted casually, “Good day, Sheriff! I trust you’ll make sure it’s a peaceful assembly?”

“Easy there…”

There were a few more confident — or maybe irked — men who shouted some creative words at the wagon, ones that made Arthur a bit irritated and others making Robin tense behind him. He doubted there would be any actual violence outside of some verbal harassment, but it was hard to tell with people sometimes.

Someone shouted for the women to head home and Calhoon quickly retaliated. “Oh, do give it a rest. You sorry fool!” She gestured at the man as they passed him, an older fellow with an unkempt beard and a stained shirt. “Mister Morgan, I give you the make of the species,”

“That’s a pretty dumb specimen, I grant it,”

Robin laughed from behind him. “Some more so than others,”

“A little further, please. Stop just past the bank,” Calhoon said, pointing to a spot right outside the bank. 

As soon as the wagon stopped, the women were jumping out, ready with their signs and their strong words. Arthur offered to help Calhoon down from the wagon but the woman was too eager to get going that she didn’t even notice. He opted to give Robin a hand out of politeness, and she took it as she jumped off the back of the wagon.

It was… kind of intense. There was a cacophony of voices, all stepping over each other as they fought at varying volumes, fighting for rights while others shouted for them to get back to their children. Arthur could feel the tension in the air as conflicting views and opinions collided, especially when some particularly loud-mouthed fools started disrupting Calhoon’s budding speech.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” She got a series of cheers in response. “This is a great day for  _ all _ of us! For today is the day we begin to live as equals,”

“Equals? Ha!” A man in the front barked obnoxiously, but it did nothing to deter any of them. If anything, it sparked Calhoon further.

“Yes, equals, sir! Fair and equal,”

The man was wasting his time, but he was stubborn enough to continue. He waved a hand at Calhoon from her spot at the front of the crowd. “This is unnatural — this is nonsense!”

He received some groans and exasperated shouts from the women, but Calhoon was as undeterred as ever, voice confident and unwavering as she continued. “Fair, equal, and free, just as the Founding Fathers intended,”

“Founding  _ Fathers _ , not Founding  _ Mothers _ , you silly old goat,” A man with broad shoulders and a mustache belonging to a face Arthur found particularly punchable approached, followed closely by a man with enough hair pomade that it reflected the sun like a mirror. Arthur spotted Beau tensing from his spot near the edge of the crowd, recognition flashing over his features.

He strolled casually towards Beau, cutting through the crowd and earning some annoyed remarks from doing so. Beau stood his ground, despite his posture showing that he wanted to run. Arthur caught Robin’s arm as her hand drifted towards her pistol, meeting her gaze and shaking his head. She understood, returning her hands to her pockets, but watched the two men carefully.

“What the hell you doin’ here, boy?” The man ignored the irked shushing from the women, approaching Beau a bit too closely, who had donned an expression of open annoyance.

Beau sighed long and hard. “Hello, darling cousin…”

The man brought up an accusing finger, voice going sharp and agitated as he snarled, “Don't you ever speak to me like that!” He kept the finger in warning as he spoke low and tantalizing. “What are you doin’ here?”

“Listening, I suppose,”

Penelope suddenly had a hand in Arthur’s wrist, tugging at it in panic. “Go help Beau! His cousin is a moron, and stop them from ruining the speech,”

“Sure,” He turned and spoke quietly to Robin, “Keep things cool?”

“I’ll try,”

“Okay,”

Arthur carefully navigated the crowd, the sounds of Beau and his cousin snapping at each other growing louder as he got closer. He could tell things were beginning to escalate, and he quickly decided that he needed to get the kid out of there.

“Beau,” The three men turned and looked at him, Beau visibly relaxing while the other two donned glares. “Weren’t we just leavin’?”

That dumbass with his finger, now aimed at Arthur as he snapped, “Who the hell is this?”

Arthur knew how to handle these fools, and as much as he wanted to throw some punches into their faces, Dutch had been more than clear; don’t cause trouble in Rhodes. It wasn’t worth it anyways. “Follow me around here,”

It was time to go, that’s for sure. Arthur had no doubt things might’ve escalated if they didn’t, but he quickly ushered Beau to his horse and the pair immediately put some distance between them and the cousins. Robin could hold down the fort, of that he had no doubt. Beau seemed to think that his cousins would follow them, quickly setting them into the direction of some old battlefield where they wouldn’t find them. The entire ordeal seemed to have set him on edge more so than before, even though he could be assured that Penelope would be safe with Robin by her side.

Beau needed to leave.

Him and Penelope weren’t cut out for their families’ brutality, for a feud that belonged to a history that they didn’t have a part in. They saw beyond that too well, and it was putting them in dangerous situations and disasters waiting to happen. And it wasn’t like people didn’t know about the pair — hell, Arthur hadn’t even been there ten minutes and he caught wind of it easily — and Arthur thought the sooner it got out there the sooner it would resolve itself. But Beau had a point; they’d be “dealt with,” whatever that meant, but Arthur couldn’t tell if that meant they’d be killed, separated, or something else entirely.

Arthur told the boy he needed to grab Penelope and go, Beau quickly confirming that he’d been gearing up for that plan anyways. For some reason, it was something of a reassurance — he’d gotten himself too invested in these two lovesick fools, and maybe he really  _ was _ going soft. He was definitely growing less rough around the edges, perhaps more considering than he used to be. And he didn’t take  _ all _ of Beau’s money, returning over half of it to the boy, who didn’t hide his surprise but took it at Arthur’s insistence; his family was rich, but Beau wasn’t, and they’d need money if they wanted to get away from here.

As he watched Beau ride away, Arthur contemplated going back to Rhodes to see if Robin hadn’t beaten anyone up yet, but he figured there was a chance Beau’s cousins would still be lurking around; Dutch had let  _ everyone _ know that trouble in that town would be  _ heavily _ discouraged, but sometimes fistfights couldn’t be avoided — so long as nobody died. So he opted to head back to camp, sidetracking a bit to grab a couple turkeys for Pearson, knowing how quick the gang got low on reserves; that man made  _ a lot  _ of stew.

The faint flickers of dusk’s impending arrival started to tint the sky a pale grey, the end of the day nearing. He’d been so busy that he didn’t even realize another one was almost over; that dissociation was occurring more often than not, Arthur wrapped up in things that made the hours fade by. And as he mounted Aegean, giving her a peppermint he had stuffed in his pocket, Arthur wondered if things would just get busier as the pressure to disappear grew harsher. They needed money, that’s for sure, but with the amount they’d be needing… they had a lot of busy work ahead of them.

He might’ve been a bit more grateful Pearson had cooked up the stew earlier than he usually did, suddenly aware of how hungry he was. The camp was quieter than usual with everyone off doing things both in and out of the camp, Sean’s voice — which tended to be louder than necessary — carrying through the air easier… as did the sound of a dog barking.

Robin was sitting on the ground with her legs crossed, rubbing behind the ears of a rather dirty Catahoula Cur that hadn’t been there that morning. Jack was beaming at the dog from his spot next to Robin, Abigail nearby and looking at the scene with a bit of uncertainty. Jack had been a bit too young to fully remember Copper — the hound that been with them for years, the dog somehow managing to be both intelligent and stupid as a pigeon up until the day he got too sick to walk — but that childlike attraction to animals was more than enough to get the kid bouncing on his feet.

It made Arthur smile a bit as he approached; Jack needed something like this. “Where’d the dog come from?”

Jack rushed up to him, bright with excitement and eager. “His name’s Cain!”

Arthur laughed. “Already got a name, huh?”

“Mister Dutch said we could keep him!” That had been a bit of a surprise, but then again, Dutch hadn’t objected to Copper all those years ago. But things weren’t exactly suited for a dog right now… or maybe things were? Copper had been liked universally by the gang, minus a few members who either found his annoying or didn’t care about him at all, and he’d been a relative source for morale-boosting. Lord knows they could use some of that right now.

He met Abigail’s gaze, who had a small half-smile on her face but her eyes still contained that near-constant worry. “And what’s your mother gotta say about ‘em?”

“She said it’s fine!”

“So long as you take care of him, Jack,” Abigail quickly said, Jack nodding before he ran back over to Cain and Robin, who was still rubbing at the dog’s ears with her own smile. Abigail sighed, however, before she said with a hint of somberness, “The boy needs this,”

“I know,”

“He ain’t sure ‘bout what’s going on, this running and stuff,” Abigail said, watching Jack as he failed to get Cain to sit, even after he got Robin to command the dog firmly. “I worry,”

A small chuckle escaped him. “You  _ always _ worry, Miss Roberts,”

It got a little smile from her. “Ain’t that what I’m known for?”

He found a smirk flooding his face. “Guess I better grab Robin before she gets that dog followin’ her everywhere,”

“You and her have been getting along well,”

“Sure,”

“She’s a good woman — real nice,”

He wasn’t sure where she was going with this. “Nicer than most folk, that’s for sure,”

“I’ll see you later, Arthur,” 

“Alright,” He gave her a small two-fingered wave before making his way over to Robin and Jack, who seemed determined to already teach the dog tricks. Of course, Cain had no idea what the boy was saying, but it didn’t deter him in the slightest. Robin was merely watching, a small smile on her face, looking relaxed and laughing when Cain opted to lick Jack’s face rather than sit.

Things seemed to be looking up, a calmness settling over the camp that they hadn’t experienced since Blackwater; even the Reverend had chosen to sit around the scout fire rather than drink himself silly. Dutch was nursing a cigar as his eyes drifted across the camp, a pensive look on his face that Arthur didn’t want to interrupt. Karen and Sean, mixing like kerosine and sparks, sat at the campfire alongside Swanson and Javier as the latter strummed his guitar lightly. Kieran was at his usual spot at the outskirts of camp, Charles fletching arrows while the kid talked quietly; he’d seemed to have opened up a bit, and Charles was a good listener.

Even with the nervousness messing with these two families got him, Arthur found himself relaxing with the rest of them. He didn’t know what tomorrow would entail, nor where they’d be a month from now, but he allowed that uncertainty in and accepted it; a predictable life was too boring, anyways.


	11. Clemens Point [4] | Advertising, The New American Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melvin, Fenton, and Gertrude sell some liquor; Arthur can't remember the last time he hugged someone.

Arthur had a tendency to wake up just as the sun was rising, which meant he was usually awake before everyone else was.

Sometimes he beat Pearson, whose Navy tendencies and the duty of getting stew ready for the lot of them designating him as one of the earliest risers. Dutch, ever the leader, quickly followed suit, his awakening subsequently rising Hosea and Grimshaw; the years they’d spent together, back before the gang was a giant force of nature, resulted in the three waking up at relatively the same time. By that time, Pearson had stew cooking and someone would’ve gotten coffee brewing, and the smell was enough to start a domino effect of gang members rising. That didn’t apply to Uncle, though, who could sleep the entire day away if no one kicked him awake.

It was one of those rare mornings where Arthur woke before any of the others, the sky still a faded navy as the pink hues of the sunrise blossomed on the horizon. He liked mornings like these, where it was quiet and he could forget the pressures of now and the worries of yesterday. It got him sketching, trying to capture the scene in the greys of graphite as well as he could. He could’ve stayed there, legs hanging off his cot with his journal on his lap and a pencil in his fingers, but he had the day to face; he didn’t know what it entailed, but with how things were going now, it would undoubtedly be a busy one.

His joints popped as he stretched, satisfying and pushing away the final remains of sleep still gripping him, and he left his cot. He hadn’t expected anyone to be out there — not even Cain was ambling around — but he was surprised to see Robin sitting at the scout fire, reading a folded-up newspaper. She still insisted upon sleeping in town for reasons Arthur could understand, staying at camp late but appearing just as the sun rose; it was a consistent schedule that Arthur could probably assign times to.

Robin gave him a small smile as he settled down on one of the crates positioned around the fire, leaning forward and heating his hands against the morning chill in the air. “Mornin’,”

“You're up early,”

He threw her an amused smirk. “Comin’ from you?”

She chuckled quietly. “What can I say? I’m an early riser,”

Arthur waved a hand at the paper she was reading. “Anythin’ good?”

“Shit’s still stirring at the border,” She responded, Arthur catching how she pursed her lips and the spark of worry in her eyes. “A lot of the country wants a  _ revolución _ , but I dunno,”

“Got family down there?”

“Sure, an uncle,” She added with a bit of a rush, “My mother’s side,”

He hoped he wasn’t prying, but his curiosity was getting the better of him. “You miss Mexico?”

Robin shrugged, tossing the paper to the side and bringing her hands to the fire. She took a moment to answer, mulling over the question Arthur hoped wasn’t too personal. “Sometimes. I miss  _ ang Pilipinas _ — the Philippines, I mean — but I wasn’t there long enough to really remember much of it,”

Arthur could understand that; he could hardly remember where he was from. He’d been far too young to remember anything of Wales and his father had been insistent upon them integrating themselves into the “American way.” And he’d succeeded — Arthur didn’t even remember the village he’d been born in, the language they spoke, the culture that made up his roots. America was a haphazard puzzle of cultures that somehow managed to be erased.

“I spent more time in  _ México _ than in the Philippines and American combined,” Robin continued. “So I guess time makes  _ México _ as much as a home as anywhere, I suppose,”

Arthur nodded in understanding, catching sight of Hosea beginning to scavenge around camp for some coffee to get going. Hosea being up meant Dutch was either awake or about to be, meaning Arthur would be busy soon enough. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway; Arthur got antsy when in camp too long, and it wasn’t like they didn’t have jobs and what-not to be doing.

“I always considered ‘home’ as a people, more than a place,” Arthur admitted, suddenly feeling a bit shy. And then he realized that Robin didn’t really have a “people” either. Sure, she had the gang now, but she was hesitant about making them into anything more than friends and coworkers. She hid it well, but Arthur could see how hesitant she was, tiptoeing around them as if too scared to connect with them. It wasn’t entirely that way with Arthur, and maybe he was tiptoeing around her, too…

“I hope I ain’t interrupting?”

Abigail approached them, Arthur spotting Jack already fooling around with that new dog of his. She had a look in her eyes that Arthur couldn’t place — something akin to mischief, maybe, but he didn’t even want to go down  _ that _ road.

“Of course not, Abigail,” Robin gave her a small smile in greeting, pulling her hands from the fire and settling them on her knees. “Everything okay?”

“Hosea and John are looking for you two,” Abigail responded, shifting her gaze to Arthur, whose interest piqued. “They went out to the moonshine stash, said you knew where that was?”

“Arthur?” Robin inquired; she hadn’t been there when the wagon was brought back, and they had tucked it away far into the trees so no one would spot it from the road. He gave her a nod and Abigail continued.

“They was planning a visit to the Braithwaite place, but John has to do something for Dutch now, so Hosea wants you two to join him instead,” She failed to hide the sigh that escaped her; poor woman worried enough about Jack and Arthur could see she was going on about John now, too. “Seems to be a lot going on,”

Arthur scoffed, pushing himself to his feet, Robin following suit. “You’re tellin’ me. Okay, thank you,” As Abigail returned to whatever morning business she had to tend to, Arthur glanced over at Robin. “Wanna head out?”

“Sure,”

He nodded, gesturing for her to follow him. The wagon wasn’t far from camp, but it was buried in the trees, easy enough to miss even from a couple paces away. Robin seemed eager to get busy, showing yet again that she was just as antsy as he tended to be, and she kept in pace next to him.

She’d been getting more involved in the gang than even some of the longer members, and Arthur couldn’t tell if that was her merely trying to please them, or if she was used to constant work that being busy all the time wasn’t unfamiliar to her. He thought back to her words before, how she wasn’t used to being a group since her brothers and that mess, and in combination with her hesitance, Arthur couldn’t help but draw some conclusions.

Back when he’d first arrived, when he was just old enough not to be a boy yet young enough not to be a teenager, Arthur hadn’t been unlike how Robin was now. He’d been on the streets, used to cruel men and heartless souls that didn’t bat an eye at a starving alley rat. When Dutch and Hosea nabbed him, well, he was terrified of being tossed back into that harsh life he’d escaped through them. He got eager, constantly wanting to please, desperate to remain with them. And while Robin certainly wasn’t desperate, she was eager, and Arthur had no doubt she didn’t want to fall back into the life that was waiting outside of the gang.

“So,” Arthur said, nodding to Bill as he returned from the night watch. “What happened after me and Beau left?”

“His cousins were… unhappy,” Robin responded, hooking her thumbs on her gunbelt and stepping over a dip in the ground. “Thankfully they didn’t notice Penelope and obviously weren’t interested in the speeches, so they left,”

“No trouble?”

“Nothing  _ physical _ , at least,”

He understood, but he wasn’t sure how she felt about it. Arthur knew that women had it rough in many aspects of society these days, and he knew that she had faced plenty of them; the women at camp occasionally saw it with the men in the gang. Still, Arthur knew that words could hurt, and sometimes they could pierce harder than any bullet could.

“I think those two need to go,” Robin said, waving a hand. “Away from… whatever mess those families have going on between them,”

“Yeah,” Arthur rubbed a hand on his chin, feeling the stubble under his fingers. “Ain’t an easy thing to do,”

“Penelope told me some things while I took her home,” She quickly added when Arthur glanced at her curiously. “I didn’t get close — no one saw me, so no need to worry about that. But she said something about… a cousin? She was vague, it probably wasn’t important,”

“Maybe,” Arthur responded, wondering if the cousin was perhaps the same one Beau had mentioned; there were too many goddamn cousins to keep count of. “Them families ain’t right. I honestly ain’t sure if this thing we have goin’ with them is a good idea,”

He hadn’t voiced his nervousness — his concern — to anyone, knowing Dutch wouldn’t be pleased and Hosea most likely would’ve brushed it off. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust them, but it seemed like now wasn’t the best time for something of this scale. It was an investment, one that involved them sticking around instead of looking for ways to disappear. There might be money at the end, perhaps the confederate gold Arthur had heard plenty of rumors regarding, but he wasn’t sure if it was worth playing with such volatile, violent fires.

They walked in silence for a while, mingling in their own respective thoughts, the sound of the early morning wildlife a calm song amongst the trees. He valued how he could do this — stay quiet knowing there was an amicable understanding between them. He’d been getting used to letting his guard down around her, and it felt better than he’d ever admit it did.

John was in the back of the wagon, sitting in front of the jugs of moonshine while Hosea examined a bottle in his hand. The younger man lifted a hand in greeting. “Hey Arthur, Robin,”

“What are you doin’?” Arthur asked, Hosea putting the bottle back into one of the crates and giving a small smile as they approached.

Arthur recognized that look anywhere; Hosea had a plan primed and ready. The man was a machine when it came to plotting, somehow always able to predict the outcome before it became apparent. He’d gotten good at knowing reactions, just like Dutch could expect certain outcomes to the point where they miraculously happened. The pair were an ingenious force to be reckoned with, and Arthur had given up trying to catch up to them years ago.

“Selling it back to where it came from,”

“Why?” Arthur eyed his curiously, as unable to catch his drift as always.

Hosea was a master at calling people dumb without actually saying it, his voice assuming that tone that pointed out your stupidity while subsequently patronizing you. “Well, I ain’t got a market for it. They made it, they must have someone to sell it to,” 

John jumped down to help Hosea pick up one of the jugs from the ground, taking it from the older man’s hands and adding it to the back of the wagon. Arthur had been noticing how Hosea had started to sit down more often than not, the not-so-subtle ways Dutch had moved laborious work onto others. The man was getting old, perhaps not old enough to be bedridden or spoon-fed and certainly not willing to be treated as such, but time caught up to all of them. He just hoped Hosea would be in a soft bed under a nice roof when it happened, and not caught between a bullet or left for dead.

“Stuff looked kinda lonely out here. I think we’ll cut ourselves a deal. Robin,” Hosea said, gesturing to her to come forward while he moved to climb into the driver’s seat. “Up front with me, ol’ Arthur can sit in the back and watch the moonshine,”

Robin chuckled, taking Hosea’s extended hand as she climbed in beside him. She sent a teasing look to Arthur, who settled in the back, letting his legs hang off the end of the wagon. “But won’t his old joints get sore?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “You callin’ me old, Robin? Last I reckon, there’s hardly any years between us,”

She scoffed in dramatic offense, Arthur shaking his head when she pressed a hand to her heart. “I thought gentlemen weren’t supposed to call women ‘old?’”

“I’m afraid Arthur ain’t much of a gentleman, Miss Rivera,” Hosea quibbed, waving to John as the man took his leave before urging the horses forward.

“He’s not  _ all _ bad,”

Hoping to escape two minds that were too good at teasing him, Arthur quickly said, “So, what exactly are we doin’? This is the moonshine we took after blowin’ up the Braithwaites’ still, right?”

“I think the good citizens taking the trouble to return their stolen goods deserve some reward, don’t you?” Hosea responded, easing the wagon into the main road, making Arthur grip the sides of the wagon as the moonshine clanked ear-splittingly behind him. “And it’s time we made a formal introduction, like Dutch told us,”

“Even me?” Robin inquired, saying in a tone that hinted at a joke but Arthur could see past it; she wasn’t certain of her place, still.

Hosea responded simply. “Of course, Miss Rivera,” He cleared his throat, shifting his tone into one of subtle warning. “Look, these are two big old plantation houses and all I keep hearing is they hate each other so much they can’t see past it,”

“I know,” Arthur replied. “We’ve seen it. There’s a Gray boy and a Braithwaite girl carryin’ on a secret affair. I, well,  _ we’ve _ kinda been helpin’ them,”

“We?”

Robin chuckled softly. “Happened to be around… and awfully curious,”

Hosea nodded. “The mind  _ boggles _ . You think they’re of use?”

“Not sure,” Arthur admitted, the impressive sight of the Braithwaite Manor coming into view. He couldn’t imagine living in a place like that; he doubted he’d enjoy it. “They don’t seem too involved in the rest of it, but… maybe,”

“Well, I’m sure there’s money in this for us somewhere, if we can get in the middle of it,”

“Penelope, the Braithwaite girl, seemed to take a shine to me,” Robin said, Hosea humming in thought. “She's a sweet girl — desperate to get out of here. Not much of a conwoman, but I might have something there,”

“Good,” Hosea responded, turning onto the road leading to the plantation house. It was an extravagant sight in a literal sense; Arthur didn’t much care for the luxurious lifestyle Dutch often called the “Gilded Cage” of society. Arthur was always fond of a hand-to-mouth lifestyle, where everything was straightforward and undramatized. He couldn’t imagine himself in fine-pressed clothes and sipping champagne from those tiny glasses.

There were several men at the gate, all of whom immediately tensed and gripped the weapons in their hands. Arthur recognized their movements immediately; they positioned themselves evenly around the wagon, surrounding it, essentially paralyzing any potential movement. Arthur saw how Robin forcibly made her shoulders relax, looking anything but, yet Hosea was as loose and effortless as always.

“Hello, gentlemen! How are you?” He greeted, waving a nonchalant hand at the men as if they weren’t armed and glaring daggers at him. Arthur had to make a conscious effort to appear at least somewhat at ease when one of the men came around the back, eyes narrowing at the bottles stacked haphazardly in the wagon.

The man closest to Arthur, hairline receding and a thick beard wrapping around his chin, nodded at the back of the wagon and asked with a heavy tint of demanding in his voice, “What’s that in the back there?”

Hosea answered without an air of concern, “Moonshine, my fine fellow. May I have a word with the man of the house?”

“The ‘man’ of the house is a lady,” The man responded, Arthur catching the slight edge in his voice. “Mrs. Catherine Braithwaite,”

“May I speak with her? I want to discuss a business opportunity,” Hosea inquired. “I mean no harm… no harm at all… you may happily  _ shoot _ me if I do,”

One of the men peered past Arthur and into the back of the wagon, Arthur scooting over to allow the man to do so. The caution all these men had was understandable, but it made it so in case anything went wrong, they’d be woefully unprepared. Robin was watching the men around them with a sharp gaze, hidden behind the guise of curiosity, even though Arthur knew she was weighing their odds as well. The only one who didn’t seem concerned was Hosea, and his little quib about killing them appeared to have established some sort of assurance within the guards.

“Okay… okay,” The man replied, waving the rifle towards the plantation home ahead. “She’s at the house — we’ll be watching you,”

Arthur had no doubt about that.

Hosea ushered the wagon forward, the guards mounting their horses and following closely, all waiting for one wrong move in order to blast them all to hell. Arthur wasn’t nervous, but he didn’t like not having an escape route just in case things went sour; there was no way for any of them to force their way out with how many guards and how surrounded they were. And while Arthur trusted Hosea to control the situation with an experienced hand, Arthur never trusted his own skills in jobs like this one — jobs that required charisma rather than bullets.

Catherine Braithwaite was obviously a beautiful woman before age and bitterness took over. Her posture was enough to signal that she was indeed the woman of the house, the deep purple of her silk and lace skirts a sharp display of wealth, and the edge in her voice a far more effective warning than any of the rifles around them. Something about her made Arthur uneasy; he felt like a fly in a black widow’s web.

“What you want?” She snarled from the shadows of the half-open doors of the plantation house, voice bright with hostility and distrust.

Arthur knew Hosea had already picked up on Mrs. Braithwaite’s demeanor, reading the harsh tone in her words and the sharp gaze of suspicion in her eyes. Yet the man maintained that light friendliness in his voice, pretending to see nothing more than a woman who could pay them, and not a manipulative head of a violent house of heartless men. “Found something… out in the hills… thought maybe you was in the market for it,”

Hosea began to depart the wagon, Robin and Arthur following suit. He could feel the eyes on him as he walked to stand beside Robin, who followed closely behind Hosea as he approached Mrs. Braithwaite. It felt like knives were aimed at him, only an inch away from his skin and waiting for any wrong movement to pierce him. Robin was tense, hiding it by hooking her hands on her waistband, and she struggled to keep it hidden when Mrs. Braithwaite snarled yet again.

“For what?”

“Some liquor,” Hosea answered simply.

Catherine was growing angry, her voice like a blade dragging across gravel, and Arthur had to force his hands to stay away from the revolver on his hip. “I ain’t in the market for what’s already  _ mine _ ,”

“Way we see it, it’s ours,” Hosea said, Arthur holding back a wince when he saw Mrs. Braithwaite glare even further. Hosea was testing her, seeing how much he could lean on this thin ice, but Arthur trusted him. “What with us possessing it, and I checked all over, for the life of me I couldn’t see your name on it,”

Catherine Braithwaite put her hands on her hips, lips curling into a sneer as men emerged from behind her. Their hands gripped the guns in their grasps tightly, strung tight and waiting for the moment to shoot, already aiming the barrels at the three of them. Arthur had to slip a warming grip onto Robin’s wrist, halting her hand as it drifted towards her gun. She relaxed as much as to be expected, allowing him to move her fingers away from the gun. She eyed him uneasily, but Arthur hoped his gaze was enough to let her know that Hosea had everything handled.

“Relax, I ain’t here to rob you,” Hosea waved a hand at the wagon behind them. “Though it seems that’s easy enough,” Catherine scoffed humorlessly, perhaps to serve as a bit of a warning, but Hosea continued as undeterred as ever. “Wanna do a deal. What do you sell that stuff for?”

“Dollar a bottle,” She snapped, narrowing her eyes at Hosea even further. Arthur was beginning to wonder if maybe they should’ve just drank the stuff themselves; god knows Karen could handle it.

“Then give us fifty cents,”

“It’s already ours!”

“Look on it as a reward, for finding the property,” Hosea’s voice was slowly turning sharp, dropping that airy friendliness that he had started with when it proved to do nothing but irk the woman. “Alternative is we go sell it someplace else,”

That’s when Catherine laughed, and if Arthur wasn’t mistaken, it held humor in it. Yet one of the men around her was anything but pleased, raising the barrel of the gun and snarling, “Alternative is you get shot,”

Arthur didn’t stop Robin from moving for her gun because he did the same himself, the tension in the air spiking. But Hosea quickly raised a hand, sending the two of them a warning look before returning his gaze to Catherine. “Now, who wants to get shot over a bottle or two of liquor?”

Catherine grasped the barrel of the man’s gun, forcing it towards the ground and chuckling at Hosea, the amused smirk on her face looking like the smirk of a coyote about to massacre the henhouse. “Pay the man,”

The man didn’t hide his displeasure, tossing the stack of bills to Hosea with a glare. Hosea ran a hand down the top of the bills quickly before returning to that bright friendliness and saying, “Pleasure doing business with you,” He tucked the money into his breast pocket, voice going somewhat soft. “And look… we didn’t take it… least, not without orders from—“

“Oh, I know  _ exactly _ who gave you your orders,” Her eyes were bright with the fury that Arthur was worried he’d be seeing; bad blood indeed. “Old Sheriff Gray. You know what? I don’t want it. In fact, sir, now you can do me a favor… there’s an extra ten bucks if you do,”

Arthur should’ve known it wouldn’t be this straightforward.

“Drive the stuff into Rhodes, head over to the tavern run by Mister Gray, and give the stuff out for free!”

“Mama!”

“Hush now,” She swatted at the man beside her — one of her sons, it seemed — before narrowing her eyes and giving a mirthless smirk. “I believe they call that a promotional expense,”

Hosea gave a laugh. “As you wish, madam,”

Arthur didn’t like this, not one bit.

He felt like they were being played, and considering they were the ones who were supposed to be doing so, it felt like a trap they’d willingly walked into. And yes, they had gotten some money out of it, but at what cost? Arthur felt like they’d just be released into a maze, like a bunch of little lab rats, being toyed and experimented with for reasons that remained out of reach. He hated it.

“You boys come back sometime and tell me how you made out,” Catherine sneered, and it wasn’t the subtle taunt in her words that made Arthur uneasy, but the words she said after sent a pang of dread through him. “Maybe we’ll play a little cribbage,”

Perhaps he was imagining it, but he thought he saw Mrs. Braithwaite’s eyes linger on Robin, far too long to be mere coincidence and sharp. The entire exchange had left him feeling uncertain, and as he climbed into the back of the wagon, Arthur wondered whether someone had just stuck a target to his back. Hosea may have had a stack of bills tucked in his front pocket, but it only served to unnerve him more.

Something about that woman was wicked — twisted in the way rabid wolves tore their prey to shreds, and perhaps just as morbid. Her sneering smiles had felt like tiny needles through his resolve, her edged words like a rickety bridge creaking beneath his boots, the sharp gaze like a cougar watching in the night. Catherine Braithwaite was a matter that might be best left alone; at least with the Grays, they seemed cold rather than malicious, and it was easier to see where their goals lay.

Arthur wasn’t entirely listening as Hosea talked about the Cornwall bonds — he’d gotten about a thousand for them — and how the monopolizer had been funding the Pinkertons; Arthur had suspicions regarding those men, and he wasn’t surprised to hear Cornwall had them gunning after gangs like theirs. Hosea had devoted himself to this job, that much was clear, and Arthur knew he’d put whatever uncertainty he had towards Mrs. Braithwaite on hold. Robin was hard to read from his spot behind her, but she was listening to Hosea intently, visibly less tense once the wagon passed through the gates and off the property.

“Alright…” Hosea’s voice was serious, stern, and it snapped Arthur out of his thoughts. He couldn’t see the man, but he’d spent enough time with him to know exactly what kind of expression he wore; one of apprehensiveness. “This could get ugly,”

Arthur had no doubt about that. Of course, he wouldn’t outwardly search for that ugliness — he didn’t want to shoot up Rhodes like he had Valentine and Strawberry — but sometimes things just… ended up like that. Maybe they could finish the day off without any bruised knuckles or bullets.

“Arthur, with what you and Dutch have going on in town with the sheriff…”

“Yeah, Mister Gray,”

“That’s it,” Hosea turned the wagon onto the main road and into the direction of Rhodes. “Now we’re… inserting ourselves in his blood feud… we’ll need something,”

Arthur knew exactly what those words meant, and he was not having it; it was one thing to pretend to be something he wasn’t, but dressing the part? Hell no. “I ain’t playin’ dress up… You know how I feel about that,”

”Of course you’re not you’re…” Damn it; Hosea had the whole thing ready to go already, and Arthur was already looped in. It was a good thing Hosea was too busy driving to turn around and see him roll his eyes. “You’re a clown’s… idiot… brother,”

Robin burst out laughing, Arthur pointedly ignoring the way his face felt a bit warmer, and eternally grateful he was facing the opposite direction. He grumbled out warningly and hoped it didn’t sound like he was begging, “Hosea, please…”

“I’m the clown,” Hosea continued. “You’re the idiot. Just, look… sad and keep quiet. Even  _ you _ can do that, Arthur,” 

That’s when he handed the reins to Robin and leaned forward, producing an ugly monstrosity of a straw hat and tossing it back to Arthur. Either Hosea just happened to be carrying it around, it had been forgotten in the wagon, or Hosea had planned  _ this _ far ahead and had disguises ready; Arthur wasn’t sure which option he hated the most. He reluctantly removed his gambler’s hat in favor of the disgusting straw one — which immediately made his scalp itch — and threw a displeased glare to Hosea as he handed his father’s hat to him.

Hosea was definitely getting some twisted sort of euphoria from all of this, hiding it behind a small smile. “Smoke this pipe,” How had he managed to get that damn thing? “Bring your lip forward, just a bit… squint… Oh,  _ perfect _ ,”

Arthur knew he looked like, well, a  _ clown’s idiot brother _ . The pipe tasted like dirt and it felt odd in his mouth — he preferred cigarettes, after all — and the hat was slightly too big for his head, leaning awkwardly while it poked annoyingly at his scalp. It wasn’t his first time being dressed like this, but god had it been a while, and he wished it would’ve been longer.

Robin continued to giggle, returning the reins to Hosea so she could turn around and gape at him. She laughed even harder when Arthur rolled his eyes. “The hat suits you!”

Arthur was about to toss back a retort when Hosea interrupted him, and boy was he glad the man did. “Oh, don’t worry, Robin. You have a role to play, as well,”

“Shit,”

“You shall be my idiot brother’s…  _ caretaker _ ,” Hosea explained, Arthur smirking as Robin eyed the older man uneasily. “The poor boy’s gone  _ mute _ , you see,” Hosea chuckled when he caught Robin’s expression. “Quite broke poor mammy’s heart!”

Arthur groaned as Hosea descended into a heavy accent, one that sounded distinctly southern and alarmingly animated. How the man could commit to something so outrageous, Arthur had no idea, and he’d never admit that he was somewhat impressed by it.

“There there, Fenton, there there. Don’t get mad, now,” Hosea smirked at the face Arthur made, dropping the accent for a quick moment while he addressed Robin. “Take your hair down, Robin, it’ll hide your face a bit better in case any…  _ undesirables _ look too long,”

She twisted her fingers into her locks, undoing the knot keeping her curly hair at bay. It was slightly unruly, her cultural background having to do with it, yet it framed her face quite nicely. He thought back to when she’d complained about it, wanting to shave it all off, but Arthur found she looked quite…  _ elegant _ when it wasn’t pulled back. The curls covered the scar on her temple, which would’ve served as a clear identifier in the case of someone recognizing her. Arthur found himself staring too long, noting the freckles on her nose and the specks of caramel in her emerald eyes, quickly pulling his gaze off of her before she noticed.

“Do I really—“

Robin cut him off, smirking teasingly. “I thought  _ Fenton _ was mute?”

“Yeah? Well,  _ Arthur _ ain’t,”

“ _ Arthur _ is wanted in several states,” Hosea jutted in, making a show of bringing a finger to his lips and shushing him.

“ _ Robin _ is wanted in two different countries,”

“Alright then, Fenton,” Hosea waved a hand at Robin, who was eyeing the exchange with amusement. “What’s your kind caretaker’s name, then?”

Robin shook her head. “ _ Why _ would you let him decide what—“

“Gertrude ain’t too bad of a name, I reckon,” Arthur smirked when Robin glared at him, knowing full well that Gertrude was one of the worst names he could think of. Hopefully it wasn’t her mother’s name, or else that’ll be awkward.

Robin —  _ Gertrude _ — opened her mouth to toss something back when Hosea quickly shushed them. “Quite down, you two. Gertrude, make sure our poor idiot stays calm, we don’t want what happened to our mama happening again in such a  _ lovely _ town,”

Hosea turned the horses onto the road leading to the Parlour House, which looked slightly deserted; it was only a couple hours past noon, anyways. Arthur hadn’t set foot in the place before, but it seemed his unconscious plans to avoid the place were coming to an abrupt end. Parking the wagon to an area along the side of the establishment, Arthur lowered himself to the ground, his feet tingling from dangling lazily off the back.

Even though nobody was around, Hosea was already jumping into action. “Okay, Fenton, stay calm now… for mamma, she loved you so,” He sighed around the haphazard lit of his obnoxious accent, “Just a shame you had to strangle her in a rage…”

Robin sighed to cover her laugh, dismounting the wagon and wrapping around to the back, where Arthur was collecting a case of bottles into his arms. She smiled at him, eyeing the hat and the pipe with barely subdued mirth, before she settled next to him and led the way towards Hosea.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Hosea greeted a pair of men against the back wall of the saloon, nursing bored expressions and perking up in interest upon Hosea’s boisterous introduction. “Quite the town you have here, we just rode in from up north,”

“Hey,” One of the men responded, waving a hand and seeming friendly enough; Arthur had kind of forgotten that not everyone in Rhodes was twisted around a Gray or Braithwaite’s finger — some were just living their lives in a dusty old town.

“Hello… hello, I’m Melvin,” Hosea gestured to himself before waving a hand at Robin and Arthur. “This is my brother, Fenton. Don’t mind him, don’t madden him, he’s turned idiot. That’s his lovely caretaker, Gertrude — she's more of a childminder, what with how my poor brother has regressed back into his  _ younger years _ . Killed our mother, but it weren’t his fault,”

One of them was nursing a cigarette while the other sat on the back steps, both eyeing Hosea curiously while subtly throwing uneasy glances towards Arthur; Hosea was a master at creating characters, but… did that mean Arthur was playing this “idiot brother” role  _ well _ ?

“How’d you boys like a couple of bucks?” Hosea inquired, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a pair of bills. The two men looked baffled, rightfully so — people don’t just go around tossing paper at people out of kindness alone — but Hosea’s chipper attitude was doing the trick; Arthur had almost been convinced himself. 

Hosea had a way with words that wasn’t unlike a siren song to seasick sailors; once he got himself going, there was no stopping him. Arthur had seen it in action more times than he could recall, and still, it never ceases to amaze him. The older man jumped into action, waving his hands and gesturing animatedly as he preached his scheme seamlessly. Arthur knew the man was making things up as he went, but the speed of him doing so was far faster than Arthur could keep up with.

“We’re in the new trade of advertising which is an American art form about… ensuring people buy the correct things,”

The man on the steps eyed the bill warily, mumbling, “I don’t know…”

Hosea produced another bill from his pocket, extending it out to the man, who suddenly looked much more reassured at the introduction of more money. “One more dollar says give us half an hour, what harm can we do in half an hour?”

Dozens of ideas came to mind, but Arthur kept them to himself; Fenton wouldn’t know what kind of mischief a trio of outlaws could get into in thirty minutes — and he certainly wouldn’t be able to say any of them, what with being  _ mute _ and all. But it was exactly what the men needed to hear, allowing Hosea to usher them away from the door and gesture to Robin and Arthur to enter.

The chaos that ensued was to be expected; the words “free” and “drink” in the same sentence always had a way of stimulating the senses. Hosea announced that the drinks would be overflowing all without a cent being spent, and the saloon erupted into pandemonium, as if everyone had been struck by lightning at the same time. 

“Fenton” could pour drinks fast, according to Hosea, and it turned out Arthur could as well. He deposited himself behind the bar while Robin sat on the edge of the counter, grabbing shots and distributing them as Arthur filled the glasses. He was pouring glasses fast enough that some of the moonshine was dampening the counter, the shots vanishing as soon as they hit the surface, whether it be from the eager hands of the patrons or Robin sending them towards eager indulgers; Arthur didn’t even have time to sneak himself a shot, but Robin was slick enough to throw one back when no one was looking. 

Hosea had said thirty minutes, but the sun had since set and the entirety of the saloon was thoroughly soaked; even the pianist was skipping over keys. There wasn’t a soul that wasn’t at least three glasses of potent swamp moonshine in, excluding the three of them, of course. A man, whose face was as flushed as a poached tomato, was mumbling as he slouched over the counter about how he’d only gone out for milk and that his wife was going to kill him; a man in clothes a bit too fine for a dusty town like Rhodes was on all fours atop the poker table, galloping like a horse and whooping like one; a couple men had partnered up and were doing some horrific drunken dance routine in the center of the tables. Robin had since departed the bar and was being swept away in a dance by a man who could hardly stand, her face bright with a smile as he amusingly stumbled over a chair and face planted into the ground. Hosea watched from his position on the giant spiral staircase that led the second story of the Parlour House — which was just as soaked as the first floor — shouting encouragement and promoting jollility, while also keeping an eye out for anything of immediate concern.

Arthur was surprised it had taken as long as it did until it all went to shit.

He was in the middle of pouring the remaining moonshine into a shot glass when the doors of the saloon burst open, silencing the Parlour House in a giant, tense wave. Regardless of how drunk they were, every man stopped what they were doing — even the pair dancing atop the poker table — and gasped at the men who had entered. Arthur had been expecting Sheriff Gray or some other local authority figure, but instead they were greeted with the region’s rapidly-growing wannabe liberators; Lemoyne Raiders.

Arthur had heard of them, of course, mostly because they’d tried to rob him a mere day or two after they’d settled at Clemen’s Point; he’d had to kill them. He’d also helped Sheriff Gray destroy their little moonshine operation out in the swamps — the very moonshine that they were now giving out for free. They were some makeshift militia consisting of Confederate veterans and troubled young men who could be considered “disenfranchised.” Frankly, Arthur didn’t care about their backstory nor their opinions, he only cared whether they were a threat or not; they’d quickly proven they were more than capable of stirring up trouble, the kind that involved bullets, most of the time.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Hosea greeted from his spot on the staircase, voice as exuberant and welcoming as always, and it stood out harshly against the growing tension in the air. “Quiet libation?”

The man in the front of the group, the buttons on his pale blue coat pulling a bit too tightly and his gun already in his fist, snarled at Hosea. “You!”

“Me?”

“You’re the bastards who stole the liquor we was going to buy,”

There was no doubt about that. The man’s words finalized that tension in the air, people slowly beginning to move and shift as they readied themselves to run. Robin sent a look towards Arthur, who was still tucked behind the bar and had a hand on the grip of his revolver. Bullets were going to fly, but when and how many… that was yet to be determined. But Arthur didn’t like where Hosea was standing, completely exposed and a gun already pointed at him; he couldn’t just shoot the man, not with Hosea where he was.

“Gentlemen, we’re in advertising…” Hosea was delaying them, subtly moving himself backwards and towards the round of the staircase; he was going to settle himself upstairs when the shooting started. “Come on in, have a drink…”

“That’s our goddamn liquor!” That was as much of a no as any.

“An honest mistake,”

“Boys, get ‘em!”

Hosea was already gone, rounding the edge of the staircase as he tossed himself behind cover. Arthur barely had enough time to duck, that dumb hat making his head seem bigger than it really was, the bullet catching on the straw and blasting it off his head; good, now Arthur wouldn’t have to shoot the ugly thing himself.

Robin ducked behind a table that had flipped in the chaos, shooting one of the Raiders who had attempted to follow Hosea twice in the chest. He stumbled onto the steps and fell, lifeless and tripping his partner, who was greeted by a bullet from Arthur’s revolver. He was pleased to see that the patrons had made themselves scarce, and knowing that now he wouldn’t have to worry about accidentally shooting any of them in the crossfire. Hosea was shouting for them upstairs, but there were too many bullets flying right now to risk running up after him.

The pair of them made quick work of the Raiders below, but it became clear that there were others waiting outside, shooting wildly through the windows in an attempt to possibly clip one of them inside. Arthur vaulted over the counter and waved a hand for Robin to follow, allowing her to run up the steps first while he covered the rear. Arthur whipped around and shot a man who had adventurously thrown himself into the saloon, a pair of pistols dual-wield in his hands. The Lemoyne Raiders were a bit more organized than other gangs Arthur had encountered, but they were just as pointlessly violent and foolish as the others; they seemed to forget that there were a hell of a lot of men out there who could shoot better than them, and that the possibility of encountering one of those men was very real.

Hosea shouted something in warning as the balcony doors burst open, a new collection of Raiders making themselves known. Robin threw herself into one of them, slamming a shoulder into his abdomen and thrusting the barrel of her revolver into his neck, pulling the trigger as he collapsed to the ground. She starts shooting the ones who were on the balcony, Arthur twisting around and shooting one of the Raider who had gotten confident enough to push Hosea against the wall. Hosea pushes the corpse off of him and shouts a thanks, waving a hand towards the two of them as he ventures out onto the back balcony.

Arthur shoots a Raider who was clumsily climbing the staircase behind them, ducking as his gun discharges before it falls from his fingers. Hosea is holding the back door open for them, shouting for them to hurry up; the last thing they needed was to get cornered in a place with next to no cover to hide from the bullets. Hosea looks fine, eyes bright with alertness as he shoots those who keep trying to climb the staircase. Robin has blood on her face and neck but he knows it isn’t hers, looking otherwise unharmed and as determined as ever. It isn’t until a man seemingly appears out of thin air and slams into her, Robin gasping out in pain and shock as he throws the both of them over the railing, the thud of a body hitting wood sending a wave of panic through him.

He curses, Hosea rushing alongside him as a gunshot cuts through the air. She’s on her back in the flatbed of the wagon, and Arthur sighs in relief when she kicks the lifeless body of the Raider onto the ground. She climbs over the back and into the driver’s seat, grasping the reins and shouting, “I’ll drive!” He catches the tightness in her voice but knows now isn’t the time to acknowledge it; Hosea is already vaulting over the side with a vigor someone of his age usually doesn’t have, and Arthur doesn’t want to wait and see what the group of Raiders running towards his have to say.

He jumps over the railing, that moment of weightlessness making his stomach lurch, but the drip is much shorter than he first thought. He lands a bit awkwardly but quickly pats Robin on the shoulder, giving her the cue that now was the time to get moving. Hosea shoots a man who was leaning over the balcony, his body landing where the wagon was seconds ago, Arthur joining in as the horses pick up speed.

“You boys alright?” Robin asks, lurching forward when a bullet whizzes by a bit too close. Hosea twists around from his spot beside her and fires a few haphazard shots towards the balcony, which might’ve hit someone but Arthur couldn’t tell.

Arthur grips the side of the wagon as tight as he can with one hand, gripping his revolver in his other hand and leaning against the back of the driver’s seat to balance himself. “Ain’t gonna let this go, are they?”

Robin takes a turn a bit too hard, Arthur swaying dangerously from his unsecured spot in the wagon bed. He doesn’t say anything when Hosea takes the reins from Robin and eases the wagon back into the center of the road, Robin merely laughing and twisting around to follow Arthur’s gaze. A pair of riders were waiting by the entrance of the saloon, and judging by the angry shout that comes out of one of them, their escape out the back has most certainly been noticed.

Hosea is watching the road with a focused gaze, but shouts as a bullet flies past his shoulder, “How many are there? They really aren’t happy about this,”

Robin shoots the closest rider in the shoulder, who tumbles out of the saddle with a groan and lands in the middle of Main Street. Arthur takes advantage of his partner, who swerved his horse to avoid the falling body, landing a shot with his revolver into the man’s temple. Hosea shouts about more Raiders joining in as he barrels down the center of Rhodes, twisting off the main road once they pass the bank; Arthur finds himself glad Robin isn’t at the reins with how dangerous their route seems to be — they’d probably be flipped over already had she been driving.

Hosea sent them away from Rhodes, Arthur infinitely thankful that the shooting wouldn’t spill out into yet another town. There were a lot of them, and even with Robin shooting alongside him, Arthur found himself constantly needing to to reload. It seemed that before their bodies hit the ground, another group of Raider were there to replace them, be it on the backs of horses or spread out across the grass with rifles. The town faded away to the background as they exited town from the north, Hosea — even with his many years of comindeering wagons in situations such as these — was having trouble keeping the wagon from going off into the grass. Arthur was glad he’d worn his rifleman gloves, or else his palms would’ve been riddled with splinters; he was gripping onto dear life as the bumps in the road and the bullets tried their hardest to throw him overboard.

“Train!” Robin shouted, shooting a pair of men who had charged forward in their horses, both falling from their mounts as bullets hit fatal points. Arthur cursed as he heard it, the sound of the engine growing loud enough that it thundered through his eardrums. But Hosea wasn’t stopping, pushing the horses even harder, and Arthur forced himself into a crouch as the wagon caught a bit of air as it rolled over the train tracks. He was close enough that he probably could’ve reached out and touched the mental of the train’s engine, and the snap of wind ran through his hair as they narrowly escaped colluding with the damn thing.

Arthur was thrown to the side as Hosea sharply turned the wagon, passing under a small structure alongside the tracks; he barely had enough time to duck before it was rushing over where his head had been less than a second ago. Hosea was forced to swerve the wagon around a man who had pushed his horse too close to them, not wanting to crash and completely screw them over. Robin shot the man dead before the Raider could reload his repeater and fire.

“Ahead of ya!” Hosea yelled, pitching himself to the side when a Raider nearly landed a shot on him. Arthur quickly retaliated by sending a few bullets towards the Raider’s chest, the force of them colliding with his chest making his fall backwards of the horse. More emerged from beneath the train tracks, passing under the small bridge in an attempt to flank them.

Robin had proven to be a careful shooter, used to dealing with weapons that covered longer ranges and needing the time to measure her shots. Arthur kept to the ones farther away, knowing she’d be able to land lethal shots on those close enough while he took the more riskier ones. She picked up on it quickly, forgoing the ones who were mounted and shooting with repeaters in favor of those who were desperate enough to ride up close and personal. Arthur was thankful she was as intuitive as she was, falling into the familiar rhythm that they’d unfortunately had to dance to a lot more so than usual.

There was a break in the shooting as Hosea pulled the wagon from the grassy hills and onto one of the dirt roads; it was the only break they’d experienced, and it wasn’t interrupted. Hosea took a quick second to glance around at the area, asking cautiously, “You see any more of them?”

He didn’t, the night finally appearing to be clear of gunfire. Arthur allowed himself to release a shaky breath he had been holding, leaning against the driver’s seat as he returned his revolver to its holster. “Don’t think so,”

Robin let out a relieved groan, patting Hosea on the shoulder before tucking her revolver away and running a hand through her hair. “All this over some alcohol? Didn’t know there was a drought in the market,”

“I reckon it’s more they don’t want another gang on their patch,” Hosea responded, passing by the trail leading to camp and aiming towards the side of it, looking for a spot to stash the wagon. He settled it into the thicket, tucking it behind an abandoned shack amongst the array of crumbling stone fences. “Alright… we’re good,”

“Yeah…” Arthur lowered himself into a sitting position, his knees not pleased with being bent in such an awkward way for so long. “Remind me never to take up a career in… what was it?”

“Advertising,”

Arthur chuckled. “Yeah. Do you think that woman set us up?”

Hosea considered it for a minute. “No, I don’t think so.” He sighed. “Maybe… this place is odd,”

Robin leaned forward and picked something up from the underside of the seat, Arthur nodding in thanks when she produced his hat, which suddenly looked like a masterpiece in comparison to that long-gone straw monstrosity. It felt nice on his head, a moment of clarity amidst the decline of adrenaline in his blood.

“I keep seein’ those fellers,” Arthur said, settling his hat onto his head.

Hosea nodded. “Some local militia. Clearly not too happy to have some new competition. I’ll go visit old Ma Braithwaite, see what’s what,”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Robin asked, eyeing Hosea with uncertainty.

He shrugged. “We been making money. Chest is filling up again, slowly but surely. Part of me thinks we just get ourselves good and lost…” Hosea’s face assumed an expression Arthur couldn’t pinpoint, but it was gone before he could question it. “But we still need a lot more money before that can happen,”

It was true, unfortunately; if they were going to disappear, they’d need the funds to make sure that once they started, they would finish. It was one thing to have the money to get somewhere, but it was something else entirely to remain where they were. Arthur wasn’t sure what Dutch’s plan was exactly, but it didn’t matter — it would need money regardless of its notions. And Hosea was right, they were making money and it was about as steady as it had been before the whole mess, but they needed more. Maybe they could get something good out of this thing, be it from the Grays or from the Braithwaites, but right now… it seemed like all they were getting was pocket change and trouble.

“So, for now…” Hosea continued, glancing at the remains of the moonshine in the back of the wagon, of which there wasn’t much. “Let me go give old Mrs. Braithwaite some of this moonshine as, well, let’s call it a peace offering,”

Arthur took that as his cue to depart, carefully navigating the remaining jugs and bottles as he jumped off the wagon. Robin climbed out of the seat and landed on the ground, backing away and joining Arthur as Hosea lifted a hand in goodbye, making a dumb quib about how he enjoyed himself with “Fenton” before urging the horses forward; Arthur was no keen on joining Hosea on another visit to that witch’s mansion so soon, and by Robin’s hurry to get off and away from the wagon, neither was she.

He had to go speak to Dutch, but maybe he could avoid it a bit longer with Robin, who was whittling her fingers through her hair and returning it to a pull-back style — which she did with an efficiency that was incredibly baffling to Arthur. 

She walked beside him as they made their way towards camp at a leisurely pace, the silence heavy but amicable; he didn’t feel the need to rush to fill it with unwarranted and meaningless noise. He fished out a handkerchief from his satchel, handing it to her when she made a movement that showed she was planning on dabbing away the blood with a shirt sleeve — something Grimshaw would’ve had her head for doing and a habit Arthur had himself — Robin thanking him with a smile as she rubbed at the blood on her neck. He noticed the green bandana around her neck, the one he’d given to her months ago, and he wondered why she hadn’t swapped it out by now.

“Wanna talk?” Robin asked, Arthur not realizing how far he’d drifted away, her voice feeling somewhat far away as he met her gaze. She eyed him with an openness Arthur valued; the kind of concern that meant she’d be willing to listen, if he needed that.

Across the months, something had established between them that made him value their relationship. Arthur didn’t really make friends, that subconscious desire to keep people at a distance — to trust out of necessity alone — was a constant whisper in his head. Even those he considered himself closest to, people like Charles and John when he wasn’t feeling particularly irritable towards the man, he didn’t feel inclined to talk in as intimately a manner as he did with Robin. She was unlike anyone he had ever met, and Arthur didn’t know what it was that made him feel like he’d known her for years, but he shared something with her that he found himself seeking out.

Obviously, Robin had picked up on it. He wasn’t sure if she was just being kind or honest, but she’d always allowed him to talk to her, even though Arthur knew she had her own business to attend to. He hoped he wasn’t coming off as desperate or anything like that, because he knows how women could send one impression when thinking something else entirely; Karen was a master at that “trickery.” He worried that Robin was too kind to tell him off, and that maybe he was reading into her kindness as something else — that there was a connection there but not of the type Arthur was sensing. And it wasn’t romantic, that much was clear, and he’d be too worried about shattering such a genuine friendship to even remotely test something along those lines; he wasn’t an animal, and he knew what kind of man he was… or who he wasn’t.

He found himself wondering whether he was taking advantage of her — that he was so desperate to talk to someone who genuinely gave a shit that he didn’t even bother asking about her. Arthur knew Robin read him like a book, but Arthur had gotten to read her as well, even if she was harder to pick apart. She was selfless in the neglectful way he was; she cared about others to the point where she didn’t care about herself. Arthur knew because he was far too similar to her in that regard. Robin had a bloody past that made her into something alarmingly contradictory; someone who was kind as a result of growing up amongst those who were anything but. She didn’t need to say so for him to see it — he could see it when she sat down by the Reverend and spoke to him with that soft caution; when she acted goofy while playing with Jack and Cain; when she silently reassured Kieran across camp with a subtle smile and a kind nod.

It was what compelled him to ask instead of answer. “Do  _ you _ wanna talk?”

He thought back to the worry in her eyes that morning, to the tension when they’d parked outside the Braithwaite Manor, and he realized quickly amidst that painfully long silence after he spoke that yes, Robin did want to talk, and she was hesitating. She met his gaze for a moment, her eyes — that pretty green color that reminded him of the needles on pine trees right after autumn hit — looking into his with an expression Arthur couldn’t read clearly; it might’ve been curiosity, maybe concern, but he couldn’t tell.

“I think I’m imagining things, but…” She gnawed at her lip, fingers around her gun belt tapping the leather in a nervous gesture. “That Braithwaite woman looked at me weird,”

Arthur wasn’t about to jump to conclusions, but he had thought so, too. They  _ were _ deep in the south, where people looked at anyone with any tint to their skin oddly, but Arthur had noticed something in that woman’s eyes that had made him uneasy. He still hadn’t decided if she’d planned the whole mess in the saloon — whether she had intentionally set them out with the notion of them encountering the bullets of the local gang. Even Hosea, who was always at least two steps ahead of everyone around him, had looked unsettled. These families weren’t saints, intent on killing each other just to spite one another, and Arthur wasn’t sure what line they had or hadn’t passed in that regard.

“I know we’re in the south and all that, and I’m not exactly  _ white _ , so,” She chuckled, a distinct lack of humor in her tone. “But… that woman had me getting nervous,”

“Don’t think you’re imaginin’ things,” Arthur said, thinking for a moment. He didn’t want to plant ideas into anyone’s head, but two people seeing the same thing? That seemed like enough to at least  _ suspect _ something. “Think she recognized you?”

“Not sure where she’d have seen me, considering I hadn’t even been that close to the property,” Robin admitted, exchanging her nervousness for pensivity. “Guess I’m just worried; I’m not used to cons like this,”

“I understand,” He did. Arthur had been on plenty of these types of things, but it never ceased to make him feel like the world wasn’t in his grasp, not like a train or bank robbery did. He didn’t like being a pawn in a game consisting of rules he didn’t know, and it wasn’t like he could shoot his way out like he could if something more  _ material _ went wrong. He felt cornered, and considering Robin hadn’t even experienced something like this before, he realized she probably felt ten times worse.

It’s why he shifted focus away from the general situation and more towards her. She dodged personal questions subtly, much like Arthur used to — he’d since forsaken that kind of thing when speaking to her — but she was as cautious as ever. “Are you alright, Robin?”

She didn’t respond immediately, and that alone spoke volumes; she wasn’t okay, and she was hesitant to talk about it, even when it was just to him and him alone. But he let her hesitate for a moment, allowed her to think before she spoke, because he knew how hard it could be to talk about things that made one feel vulnerable. “I don’t really know,”

“I’m here, you know,” Arthur replied. “You listen to me blabber like a fool, so… you ever wanna do that for a bit, I’m around,”

She laughed, the sound making a small smile flood his face. But he caught the sigh that escaped her, how she slouched a bit and looked out in the distance, rather than at him. He understood that she wasn’t ready to talk or that she didn’t want to, but then her hand was around his wrist and they were stopping, Arthur meeting her gaze and was surprised to see that she looked sadder than he’d ever seen her before.

Her voice was unsteady, full of emotion that she was harshly pushing away, and it made Arthur’s chest tight. She wasn’t crying, and he couldn’t see tears in her eyes with the darkness around them, but she sounded like she was close to doing so. “I don’t, um, I don’t wanna lose this,”

He wasn’t sure what to say, only that he was aware that her hand was still around his wrist, her fingers soft yet sturdy on his skin. Arthur was shocked to feel that urge to hug her, to wrap his arms around her and pull her towards him, not only because he hated hugging anyone regardless of how close he was to them, but because he never hugged  _ anyone _ — not even Hosea. He forced it away, opting to remove his other hand from his pocket and place it on the one around his wrist. He could feel the scars on her hand, the callouses from tools and the roughness from where skin had broken and blood had spilled; they were working hands — hands that could carefully navigate a needle through flesh, could pull a trigger in a rifle to land a shot from hundreds of feet away, that could pick a lock in seconds.

He expected her to pull away, to shove her hands into her pockets where Arthur couldn’t touch them, but she allowed it. Maybe the darkness was fooling him, but he thought he saw her shoulders relax a bit, the tension her arms fading slightly. God, he wanted to pull her close once he saw that, just to feel her touch for a moment — Arthur knew better, of course, and he wasn’t about to risk what was already something he was thankful to have for some boyish craving.

“I don’t talk about it,” She said, her voice quiet and without its usual confidence, heavy with uncertainty as she considered her words carefully; he didn’t rush her, allowing her to take her time just like she’d done with him many conversations past. “But… I lose myself sometimes,”

“How so?” He wanted her to know he was listening, that he was taking her seriously — that her concerns and worries were valuable. He heard the weight in her words, and he felt a bit of honor knowing she was comfortable enough to talk about something like this; it made him feel that maybe he was more human than he had been a couple months ago.

Her fingers shifted under his, and he expected her to pull away, but he was surprised when she merely maneuvered her hand to hold his more comfortably; she let go of his wrist and instead grabbed his other hand, his clumsy fingers dwarfing hers in an almost comical way. He hadn’t touched someone in such a way for longer than he could remember, and he’d almost forgotten what human touch felt like without the frantic fight for one’s life alongside it.

“My mother, she was… there’s no way to sugarcoat it, I guess. She was crazy,” Her words, while unsteady, were sharp, full of meaning that Arthur knew came from hardship and vulnerability. “She heard voices, got mad at things that never happened, and it killed her. It’s why we left the Philippines, things got too painful,” She broke off, sighing. “My brother got some of it, and with all the killing I do, sometimes… I think I got a bit of it, too,”

Arthur was no stranger to killing, of course; he’d killed more men in his thirty-five years than entire city blocks have in their lifetimes. The world wasn’t a kind place and there were plenty of people who would love to see your brains on the ground, and usually that was enough to warrant killing someone. But Arthur had killed just to make things easier, killed men who were probably fathers or husbands, killed people who might’ve posed a risk when they probably hadn’t meant any harm. He had killed enough people to empty Flat Iron Lake and fill it with their blood; the gang had killed enough people to fill it thrice more.

Robin wasn’t a stranger to killing, either, what with how good she was at it. She’d proven to know where to shoot to cause as little pain as possible, just like she knew where to punch to cause as much pain as one can experience. She grew up in a violent lifestyle just like Arthur had, and she’d adapted to survive in it. She’d erased the guilt that came with ending a life, just like Arthur had gotten good at forgetting the faces of the lives he’s ended — it was a requirement for a life of an outlaw.

But he knew she wasn’t talking about that, not entirely.

He’d seen her get angry, where the Robin he’d come to know well was replaced by some wild, fierce force with a face he didn’t recognize. Arthur had seen plenty of angry people, but none quite like Robin when she got pissed; it was like she vanished. He’d seen it when she looked at her brother’s wanted poster, or when that man had sold them out and tried to kill them, and those times in the midst of the gunfire when she’d aimed perfectly as a man’s skull would shatter as a bullet went through it. He’d seen her lose herself in a fury he’d, frankly, been terrified of. She reined it in like a stubborn horse, but it was there, and he’d seen the times where it emerged like a defense mechanism. It consumes her like a wildfire, burning her to ashes, and Arthur couldn’t imagine the pain of losing oneself to something so… cruel.

“You’re not your brother, Robin,” Arthur found himself saying, somehow just… knowing. He held her gaze as she looked at him, her eyes sharp and full of an uncertain sadness that Arthur could only pretend to understand. “You’re not a monster,”

“I keep telling myself that, but—“

He felt bad interrupting her, but he knew the route she was taking; he’d taken it plenty of times himself, where he lay in bed and wallowed in the uncertainty, or staring at his reflection hard while he shaved. “I know. Christ, I  _ know _ , Robin,”

For a second, he thought that he might’ve lost his restraint and he’d thrown himself at her, but it was Robin who pulled him towards her and wrapped her arms around him. She was short and slender, whereas Arthur was all brawn and length, and the height difference made it so that Arthur could easily absorb her into his chest. He wasn’t sure what to do at first, having not hugged in who knows how long and not expecting the gesture in the first place, but his hands eventually found their way to her hips as she leaned into him. He felt awkward for a second, not sure whether he should just allow  _ her _ to hold  _ him _ or if  _ he _ should hold  _ her _ , but he allowed himself to wrap around her and rest his head atop her hair, the curls soft on his chin.

It spoke more than his words could’ve, and they stayed that way in the nighttime chill, closer than he would have dared mere moments ago. She wasn’t crying — she wasn’t making a sound at all, actually — and he knew she was relishing in the simple, true act of just holding someone. The last time he’d been those close to someone, he’d been strangling them, and he didn’t know the last time someone had just held him; had it been Mary? Hosea after  _ they’d _ died? He never allowed himself to be close to anyone, and maybe his father had something to do with it or maybe it was just his inherent coyness — Arthur didn’t know, and he doubted he’d ever know.

But what he did know was that he hadn’t felt this…  _ safe _ in a while.  _ Secure _ might’ve been a better word, or perhaps  _ comfortable _ , but he knew for sure that it felt  _ good _ . He’d never head the end of it from the others if they caught the two of them — the cold, ruthless enforcer Arthur Morgan hugging a tiny woman just to be held? But he wasn’t thinking about that right now. He was thinking about how she smelled like wildflowers and gunpowder, how her hands were gentle and warm on his back, the way her hair felt like silk as it touched his chin and fell over his hand between her shoulder blades.

“Thank you, Arthur,”

He hummed in response, not sure he’d trust himself not to say something stupid with her being so close. He didn’t want to be the one to break off the hug, both because he didn’t want it to end and because Robin had been the one to instigate it in the first place. They remained like that for longer than what might’ve been considered “normal,” but Robin was holding him tight and he was more than willing to allow her to.


	12. Clemens Point [5] | The Qualms of Ex-Parenthood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Robin indulge in an odd robbery; grief does strange things to people.

The smell of smoke had burned its way into Arthur's clothes, the scent strong enough to make his eyes water, even though he and Sean had finished burning the Grays’ tobacco fields hours ago.

Arthur hadn’t been too keen on getting back into bed with Catherine Braithwaite so soon, not with how uneasy the woman made him feel.

Something about her was unnerving, and it made Arthur nervous. It was like watching the ice beneath his boots crack whenever she spoke, or meeting the gaze of a cougar out in the forest when she met her eyes too long — alone and unarmed — or staring down the wick of a dynamite stick, watching and waiting for it to explode. She made him nervous, rattled him in a way that made his fingers itch to have a gun in his hands, more so than usual. He didn’t know how to speak to her, uncertain if her snarl of a smirk was one of amusement or of confidence; he felt like a fly caught in a spider's web whenever he looked at her, like she knew something Arthur didn’t an intended to dangle it like a carrot above him.

At least things had been more  _ straightforward _ this time; the job was simple — sneak into Caliga Hall and burn the dried-up fields belonging to Tavish Gray, preventing any kind of recovery should rain or wetter weather come along — and it had only resulted in a small amount of bullets being exchanged. Sean had performed better than Arthur had expected him to; the kid had clearly wanted to impress him, or make it up to him for the smidge of trouble he’d caused back with John’s train robbery. Nonetheless, the entire thing has gone down without any sizable hitches nor any bullet wounds. Arthur had managed to burn the back of his hand a bit after fumbling with a fire bottle before throwing it, but it was a small price to pay for a relatively clean execution. Sean had proven to be a good actor, once he got over the nervousness and fell into that clumsy charm that got the pair of them into the place easily. It was a nice display of genuine ingenuity that proved Sean was capable of more than just throwing fists and shooting well enough. The job brought back a nice amount of money, as well, perhaps not as much as Arthur would’ve liked but it would hold them off for a little while.

But Grimshaw had pounced on him as soon as she found him, snapping at him about needing to change out of his smoke-smelling clothes and into something that didn’t make her eyes water — Arthur figured it was time for some new fabric anyways. Yet when it came to clothing, Arthur was as modest as humanly possible, going for as close to bare necessity as he could. He didn’t have Dutch’s extravagant panache that enabled the man to wear clothing of such smartness, nor did he have Hosea’s natural style that allowed the older man his seamless refinement; he’d been with the pair for twenty years and yet fashion choice was something neither of them could ever get through to him. He’d settled on a simple navy work shirt and jeans, opting to pass by on the new boots, despite feeling how worn and used his were becoming. He got some candy for Jack before leaving, knowing the kid would brighten immediately — sugar was a one-way ticket to any child’s heart, Arthur came to know.

Arthur knew Rhodes had its fair share of secrets, the resident families housing more than enough gossip to keep the town off the Van der Linde Gang’s no-good-doings. There was that weird caravan behind town that served as the local fence’s location of dealings — the man had a grizzly scar running across his entire face that gave John’s claw marks a run for their money — and Arthur figured out that the train station clerk with the mutton chops knew things he wasn’t supposed to know about. Arthur wasn’t about to start digging around in matters that didn’t involve him, especially when all that would await was trouble and possibly some injuries. But there was a point where Arthur couldn’t ignore things anymore, and that came in the shape of the man chained up beneath the Rhodes’s gunsmith.

He was about to enter the establishment to grab some boxes of shotgun shells when he spotted a hand reaching out from beneath the foundation, and Arthur wasn’t about to ignore  _ that _ . A couple draft horses nearly ran him over when he stopped abruptly in the middle of the road, stunned by the sight for a moment before he eased Aegean to a hitching post nearby and made his way towards the man — because, despite being dressed like a  _ little boy _ , it was clear that beneath the clothes he was most certainly an  _ adult _ .

“Mister,” The man’s voice was unsteady and clogged with desperation, his hand reaching between the bars peering into the basement, ready to grab Arthur’s ankle in case he started walking away. “I’ve been trapped down here…”

Arthur didn’t know what kind of weird shit people were into, and frankly it wasn’t his business, which was why he merely eyed the man suspiciously and asked, “Why are you dressed up like that? I’ve seen some sick perversions in my time but, this one might take the prize,”

His voice descended into frantic cries, carefully leveled as to not reach a volume that would carry across the dusty roads and attract the wrong kind of attention; or maybe he was trying to keep the shop owner manning the counter above him from hearing. “No-no-no, wait, please. You gotta help me. It’s that crazy gunsmith, he made me dress up like this,”

Arthur knew how good of an actor someone could be — Hosea was a fine example of how well someone could fool another — and Arthur wasn’t sure if he believed the man. He could be luring Arthur into a trap, possibly seeking to replace him in favor of another, and god knows Arthur would rather die than be subjected to whatever twisted depravities some people had. But the man’s voice was full of the raw kind of fear, the type of terror and desperation that no actor could mimic, not even those as efficient and experienced as Hosea. And the man looked terrible, besides. His hair was unkempt and disheveled; he was a sickly shade of paleness; shadows the shade of charcoal wrapped around his eyes and making him look like he was nursing two shiners — maybe he was, Arthur couldn’t tell. Regardless, there was a difference between a show stopping performance and genuine trouble, and Arthur determined quickly which kind of “acting” was going on here.

“He’s got me chained to the  _ goddamn _ bed,” He hissed, Arthur tilting his head and catching sight of the filthy mattress he was using as a stool to reach through the bars. As soon as Arthur moved away from him he was shouting desperately, the sound making Arthur’s chest feel like an eel was twisting around in it. “You gotta do something, please, he’s never gonna let me go,”

Arthur knew he could handle it easily — just go into the gunsmith, point his gun at the bastard, and command him to open up his basement — but his current position made matters alarmingly difficult. There was Dutch on one hand, telling the gang not to cause trouble in Rhodes and to keep their guns holstered and noses out of trouble, and then there was the fact that Arthur Callahan was deputy to one Sheriff Gray; circumstances made what would’ve been a straightforward matter rather convoluted and delicate.

But Arthur couldn’t just leave that man there, chained to a bed and forced to dress like a goddamn child (against his will, presumably). He saw the terror in the poor man’s eyes and he couldn’t just… walk away and pretend he hadn’t been there to witness it. So as he stood there, the hot gaze of the sun having nothing to do with the sweat gathering on his brow, hesitating in a way that made him feel guilty even though he hadn't even made a decision yet, Arthur found himself feeling like a bastard having even considered walking away.

“I’ll be back,” Arthur decided — no, he had just  _ promised _ . He couldn’t leave him like that, left to the infernal devices of whatever twisted pits of that gunsmith’s mind they crawled out of. There was the possibility that the man deserved it, maybe even  _ wanted _ it, but even Arthur knew someone with such desperate terror in their voice didn’t want… whatever it was he was being given.

He needed help; Arthur couldn’t get involved, not with all the heat around him, but he knew someone who could.

He found her sitting with Mary-Beth and Tilly, sewing holes in socks and other freshly-cleaned laundry with a freakish efficiency that made Arthur’s fingertips hurt; Grimshaw had spotted how fast she was at sewing, and unfortunately that had designated her the unofficial role of “clothes-patcher.” Arthur couldn’t go anywhere near a needle without managing to impale himself, both because he didn’t have the patience nor the delicate hands for tasks that required such precision. Regardless, she was sitting behind the women’s wagon, perched atop a crate with a pile of clothes beside her, a small smile on her face as she listened to the other women’s chatter.

“I think it’s sweet!” Mary-Beth’s voice was insistent as Arthur approached, looking up from her place clothes-pinning shirts to a line and glancing at Tilly.

Tilly laughed as she folded a pair of work pants on her lap, carefully adding it into a basket that looked like it had some sort of system within it, judging by the way pants, shirts, and other garments were arrayed strategically within the wicker. “Sean don’t know a thing about ‘sweet,’ Mary-Beth,”

“It was probably an accident,” Robin said, maneuvering the needle through a hole in a sock’s heel. “Poor fool learned all his charm from the pages of penny dreadfuls,”

“Aw, you’re too hard on him,” Mary-Beth said, shaking her head still smiling.

“Maybe you’re too  _ soft _ , Miss Gaskill,” The three women looked up as Arthur spoke, Tilly jerking slightly in surprise and rolling her eyes.

“Eavesdropping ain’t very nice, Arthur,” Tilly said, a hint of humor in her voice as she challenged him playfully.

He chuckled, holding his hands up in surrender as he nodded at Robin. “Just need to borrow Miss Rivera for a moment, if that’s alright?”

Arthur led her a bit past camp, just out of earshot of anyone nearby. He knew they wouldn’t approve of him wasting his time on business that wasn’t his, especially business that wouldn’t bring in any money and would probably only land him in a spot of bother. He caught how quick Robin put aside the sock and the needle, eager to get away from the chores for any reason at all. Robin’s roundabout status in the gang meant she was thrown about everywhere; on jobs both big and small, tedious chores assigned to by Grimshaw, added to the rotation for guard duty. And while she didn’t complain, it was clear where she was used to being, and that spot was on the front lines getting her hands dirty, not sewing clothes back together.

He was a bit surprised to feel a moment of relief when he didn’t sense any weirdness between them, and Arthur didn’t realize that it was because they hadn’t been separate from everyone else since they’d gotten a bit close that night after the Parlour House with the moonshine; it hadn’t been just the two of them since he’d held her and she’d revealed a vulnerable part of herself. Arthur was probably looking into it wrong, searching for some mistake he might’ve made by allowing himself to get so close to him — that perhaps he had crossed a line. But Robin was as nonchalant as usual, legitimately so, that normal friendliness between them as strong as ever and not at all awkward, as he’d found himself worrying about.

But… they also hadn’t talked about, hadn’t acknowledged it in any way. Maybe there was nothing  _ to _ acknowledge, that their moment of closeness was simply something that was as straightforward as a moment of connecting with someone; nothing more, nothing less. Arthur was worried about ruining things and he wasn’t taking into the consideration that Robin wasn’t as full of frantic self-doubt as he was.

She put her hands into her pockets, the distinct lack of her gunbelt showing that she’d been in camp all day, doing chores and whatnot — it was only just past midday and that quiet period of post-afternoon calm was settling in. It meant Rhodes wouldn’t be as active as it usually was during midday, and maybe now was as good a time as any to do something. He saw how she was searching him, wondering why he was pulling her aside, but she waited with that perpetual patience that Arthur envied.

“I need your help,” Arthur finally said, not entirely sure how he was supposed to start a conversation like this; he’d never had to ask someone for help breaking a stranger out of another stranger’s basement before. “It’s kind of… weird,”

“Weird?” She asked, eyeing him curiously, and Arthur suddenly felt a bit awkward about asking, feeling his hand drift to his neck as he rubbed the area nervously.

“You, um, ever hear anythin’ about the gunsmith in Rhodes?”

“Actually, yeah. The clerk at the train station said that he was  _ sketchy _ , whatever  _ that _ means,”

“Well, he’s got a man locked up in his basement,” It came out sounding like a joke missing its punchline, but Arthur continued when Robin raised an inquisitive eyebrow, her interest clearly piqued. “Got the feller dressed up like a child, ankle chained to the bed so he ain’t running nowhere,”

“Are you sure it’s not… voluntary?” Robin cringed as she said it, the concern legitimate but it was still twisted; Arthur had considered that possibility long and hard, because people got their knickers in a twist over some perverted things and Arthur wasn’t sure if this  _ wasn’t _ one of them.

But Arthur had determined it was anything  _ but _ a willing situation upon hearing how horrified the man had been, desperate to confide in a stranger who, frankly, didn’t look very nice or willing to listen. “I reckon it ain’t,”

“I’m assuming you need me to break in, Deputy?”

Arthur chuckled. “Got too much heat in this damn town, don’t wanna mess things up for Dutch, so I’m thinkin’ we go in at night, right when he closes and the town starts tuckin’ in,”

Robin nodded, listening as Arthur expressed their plan, which he took as confirmation that she was willing to be the centerpiece. It would be a couple hours until night started to set, meaning they’d have to make themselves busy for a bit while they waited for the dark to settle. With Robin now officially part of the plan, it meant things could go about differently — they could execute this much quieter.

“Break in through the back, assumin’ you can pick the lock?”

It got a laugh out of her, Robin waving a dismissing hand as she said, “Of  _ course _ I can pick the lock. Piece of cake compared to a vault,”

He nodded with a smile, continuing. “Alright. Gunsmith don’t live at the shop, but he might linger around, so there’s a chance you might have to knock him out,”

“Think you’re wrong on that one, Arthur,” She said, Arthur eyeing her curiously before she clarified, “He goes and plays Blackjack at the Parlour House most nights, don’t see why this one won’t be any different,”

“Good, so assumin’ he ain’t there, you can get into his basement and break the feller’s chain,” Arthur said. “I’ll be nearby, just in case. There’s some bars in the place’s foundation, I can see and talk through ‘em — feller nearly tripped me as I walked by, that way,”

“Sounds good,” Robin nodded at the girls waiting by the wagon, finishing up the laundry. Arthur caught Tilly watching them curiously, but she looked away fast enough that Arthur wasn’t sure if he’d merely imagined it. “I have to wrap things up here…”

“Grimshaw ain’t givin’ you trouble, is she?” Arthur found himself asking, allowing himself a moment of concern. Susan could get harsh sometimes, he’d seen it on multiple occasions, and he didn’t want Robin to be subjected to that for any unjust reason. Grimshaw cares about the lot of them, but she gets overwhelmed sometimes, worrying in that frantic way of hers and driving herself crazy with thoughts of worse-case scenarios. With what’s been happening now, the gang integrating themselves into a feud revolving around blood and sticking their noses into all kinds of trouble, Arthur knew she was on high alert now more than ever.

Robin looked considerate for a second, leaning back on her heels while she thought. “She seems stressed,”

Arthur brought a hand to his chin and scratched at the stubble blossoming there, nodding as he agreed with her. “Yeah. Susan gets a bit…  _ mad _ whenever she's wound up,”

She seems to understand. “There’s a lot going on,”

Arthur nods, because god knows  _ that _ was true. There were plans and schemes everywhere — Bill was plotting something and he had a feeling he’d be asking him to tag along soon — and Dutch was eager to wring every ounce of gold from these families, despite the fact that they’d only gotten cash and the rumors of hidden treasure hadn’t gone anywhere. They were in the midst of playing with fire, Arthur and Sean quite literally, and he was growing nervous; as was Grimshaw, it seemed.

They went their separate ways then, allowing those couple hours to go by. Arthur hadn’t been spending as much time in camp lately, the combination of the gang’s jobs and his own business keeping him away. He expected himself to be chewed out by Dutch or Grimshaw for meandering, but they didn’t give him much glance as he wandered around, hauling some feed for the horses and carrying water across camp. They also didn’t complain when Uncle pestered him into a couple rounds of poker, which was essentially Uncle’s way of unintentionally handing Arthur his pocket change; the old fool knew the rules of poker, but he didn’t understand the ways to play — bluffing to hell and back when all he had were low-value pairs, and folding when he had a hand that could’ve rewarded him handsomely. The combination of monotonous manual labor and the hour burnt away with poker had quickened the arrival of evening, Arthur finding the world darkening faster than he’d anticipated.

Robin was waiting by the horses shortly after Pearson had brought out the nighttime meal, chatting idly with Kieran, who still ate his stew away from everyone else. Arthur knew he was starting to warm up to others, especially Charles and Mary-Beth, the latter of whom had a tendency to make the boy blush and stutter. Kieran’s potential threat had been eradicated a while ago, but Arthur could still catch the meaningless threats Bill and Micah tossed at the poor kid, the way Sean teased him knowing Kieran didn’t have the backbone to retaliate. Arthur had been trying to alleviate some of it, subtly luring others away from Kieran while also inserting himself into the exchanges; Kieran was a good kid and he didn’t do anything to deserve such pointless torment.

It did make Arthur feel a bit guilty when Kieran tensed upon spotting his approach, but Arthur had started to realize it was more of an instinctual reaction rather than any personal contention towards him. The little fishing trip had worn away at that tension, Kieran feeling more confident to talk normally whenever Arthur spoke to him and stuttering less while he did so. Maybe the O’Driscolls had been crueler to Kieran than he'd realized, because never had Arthur met someone as squirrely and craven as Kieran.

Arthur went over the plan one more time as he and Robin headed to town; it wasn’t that he didn’t trust Robin to perform such a task — she’d done more for less and had proven plenty of times to be the most skillful when doing those things — but perhaps he was nervous. Arthur didn’t want to cause a stir, especially not now, but he couldn’t stomach leaving the poor feller chained in that crazy bastard’s basement.

It was simple. Arthur would deposit himself on the wall outside the gunsmith where the window into the basement was located, just to make sure things went quietly and according to plan. Robin would see if the front was unlocked, and considering it most likely wouldn’t be at such a late time, she’d pick the lock on the back foot and enter that way. She’d make her way into the basement, where Arthur would slip her the lock breaker from the window, which would then be used to break the man out of the chains; simple as that. This was all assuming that the gunsmith wasn’t there, but considering Robin’s observation of his predictable schedule, he’d be several rounds in at the Parlour House and busy tossing his money at the Blackjack dealer. 

They hitched the horses nearby. Rhodes was quiet this late, the businesses closing down for the day while most of the attention was coming from the saloon down the street, where a steady stream of piano music and chatter issued; the establishment had bounced back  _ very _ quickly after their little escapade with the Braithwaite moonshine. Regardless, Arthur and Robin stood by their horses for a moment, Arthur lighting a cigarette while Robin eyed the gunsmith. There were no lights on inside, and from their angle Arthur could see that the feller wasn’t provided any downstairs, either. A wagon drove by, a drunk stumbled through the main road to his horse, the owner of the general store locked the door to his shop and headed home; it was settling down, and now was as good a time as any.

“Anyone nearby?” Robin asked, running her hands idly down Armadillo’s neck, the gelding leaning appreciatively into the touch.

He watched the general store owner mount his horse and head off, presumably back to his house, and eyed the man smoking a cigar outside the train station. Arthur let his eyes pick apart the shadows in the darkness, and when his gaze found no one, he shook his head. “It’s clear,”

Robin nodded, crouching down and reaching into her boot. He watched as she pulled out a tiny rectangular strip of leather, which she opened to reveal a series of thin metal instruments; lockpicks, Arthur recognized, although some were shaped kind of oddly. He met her gaze for a moment, considering her, catching sight of that familiar unwavering determination in her eyes. Arthur let his gaze linger a little too long before he made his way forward.

He leaned against the wall of the gunsmith, crossing his legs as he took a long drag from his cigarette. He could hear shuffling from beneath the gunsmith, a nervous sound issuing from between the bars. Arthur rapped the heel of his boot on the bars, the sharp chiming of a chain rattling cutting through the crickets around him. Saw a pair of hands grip the bars, fingers with nails chewed down to the flesh wrapping tightly around the metal.

“W-who’s there?” It was a hurried whisper, cautious and uncertain, but Arthur recognized the man’s voice.

Arthur spoke around the cigarette in his mouth, just in case anyone was watching, the motion meaning he could merely be shifting the cigarette in his mouth rather than speaking. He kept his voice as quiet and reassuring as he could muster. “Stay quiet,”

“Is that you, sir?”

“Quiet,”

Arthur couldn’t see her, but he heard activity in the building, the movements too light and deliberate to be the gunsmith — that man was too broad and heavy. Arthur was impressed; Robin broke that lock quick. And it took only a couple seconds before he heard something click from inside, the creaking of an old door on rusty hinges making Arthur wince. But he heard Robin’s voice, soft and steady as she reassured the man, who had spiraled into a steady panic upon seeing a new face.

There was a tap on his ankle, and Arthur crouches down to peer through the bars, his eyes meeting Robin's familiar face. She held a hand out to him and Arthur quickly fished out the lock breaker from his satchel and deposited it into her hand. He was positioned at an incredibly awkward angle, his vision reduced to a small rectangle that included the bed, chain, and a small corner of the room where an end table was settled against the wall. He watched carefully as Robin inserted the lock breaker into the wall rather than directly on the man’s ankle, but Arthur merely scoffed at his stupidity; it took a bit of strength to use a lock breaker, and that strength was most likely enough to break the man’s ankle in addition to the cuff around it.

At the sound of someone walking, Arthur threw himself into a standing position, resuming that relaxed stance as he took a drag from his cigarette. But the man going by wasn’t paying him any mind, and Arthur held back a curse when he recognized the face of the gunsmith making his way to the stop, the man’s shaggy hair and poorly-trimmed mustache igniting a wave of panic.

“Robin!” Arthur hissed, luckily he was close enough that he could alert her and not the gunsmith, who was searching through his pockets for what Arthur assumed was the key for the front door. She looked up with an expression of alarm, her hands on the wall and ready to slam down on the lock breaker, but there wasn’t a warning more efficient than the sound of the door unlocking above her.

Robin hissed something Arthur didn’t catch, but she vanished from his vision, and Arthur realized he was going to have to get involved. Evidence of a break in was clear and there was only one place to hide in such a small building; Robin was cornered and the gunsmith was much larger than her, and Arthur didn’t allow himself to hesitate anymore.

He bolted around the gunsmith, opting to enter through the back door, which was expertly picked by Robin — he'd have to ask for some tips sometime, preferably away from this mess. He opened the door with his shoulder, drawing his sawed-off shotgun and rounded into the room. It was empty, but he heard activity downstairs; curses, shuffling, the sound of metal against the ground. Cursing, Arthur threw himself down the steps leading to the basement, trying not to stumble at the steep angle of the stairs before he burst into the room.

It was dry and cold, the ground made up of hard-packed cobblestone while the walls a sturdy brick. The ceilings were low and the room was heavily furnished; shelves full of trinkets Arthur suspected held some kind of meaning, boxes piled high around the edges, a weird bone decoration on the wall. But the furnishing was clearly intended for a child — the tiny bed that was close to the ground, an ornate rocking horse in the corner, a small easel with equally small paintbrushes on the tray. The only problem was that none of the four people occupying that tiny basement were children, except one was dressed like it, crammed into a sailor suit far too small.

Robin was shoved against the wall, the gunsmith spitting at her while she struggled against him, pushing her hands into the man’s shoulders while her boots kicked at his ankles. The feller was chained to the wall by his ankle, unable to reach Robin as the gunsmith shouted obscenities and threats at her. Arthur didn’t hesitate; he threw himself forward, hauling the man off of Robin with strength fueled by adrenaline and pushing the man to the ground. The gunsmith grunted as the cobblestone met his back, Arthur pointing his sawed-off at the man’s forehead as his raised his hands frantically, beady eyes full of fear and something Arthur swore was something akin to shame.

“Don’t shoot me, please!” The man’s voice was pitched with desperation, his body squirming on the floor as if the bullets had already pierced him. There was a tendril of blood running from his mouth and Arthur could see the beginnings of a bruise around his lip; Robin got a nice hit in before he could pin her to the wall. “J-Just leave us be!”

Us, he’d said. Robin was rubbing at her shoulder, eyeing the situation with a narrowed gaze, suddenly looking as uncertain as Arthur felt. Arthur kept the gun pointed at the gunsmith but directed his question at the young man next to the bed; Arthur needed to rest things, just a little, to allow himself that time to make a final decision — to grab Robin and run or to risk helping this man. “Why are you dressed like that?”

“That crazy  _ maniac _ ,” The feller stood rigid like a board, waving a shaking hand at the gunsmith on the ground. “Put me in it! He thinks I’m his kid son. Kidnapped me, he did! Do I look like a kid?”

With the gun pointed at him and the tension bubbling in the air like lava, the gunsmith’s voice wavered under the pressure of needing to explain himself. “A-always in such a rush to grow up these days, aren’t they?”

It wasn’t convincing, not at all. Arthur met Robin’s gaze and nodded at her, waving a hand at the young man’s ankle and giving her the okay. She picked up the lockbreaker from the ground — which must’ve escaped her hands in the momentary scuffle — and crouched down by the wall beside the young, who was already letting out a string of thanks and blessings.

As soon as Robin inserted the tool into the lock, the gunsmith’s uneasy attempts to fabricate a tale took a sharp twist as he abandoned his lying, opting to go for pure desperation instead. Arthur had to consciously keep his finger away from the trigger as the gunsmith squirmed beneath his gaze, voice harsh and frantic as he struggled to choose his words.

“He was being a bad little boy, stealing candy from the store again!” His voice came out in a frenzy, all pitched and wavering as the gunsmith fruitlessly attempted to add flesh to his story. Arthur knew for certain now that he was lying; the fear in that young man’s face spoke more than any unsteady squabbles from the other. “It’s for his own good!”

Arthur decided then that it wasn’t weird, but sad, because this man was desperate and feverish with how he tried to convince them of something that only grew more morbid by the second. Even if this feller  _ was _ his son, chaining him in the cold basement to a bed too small for him was not the kind of behavior Arthur considered “loving.” 

The young man spat with harshness that made the gunsmith visibly flinch on the ground, “I’m not your little boy, you mad son of a bitch!”

The hatch in the wall clicked as the chain fell from it with a thud, Robin rising to her feet and immediately being grasped in a hug from the young man. She tensed, looking like she was about to swing, but she awkwardly patted the man on the back, sharing a bewildered look with Arthur. 

The young man wasted no time rushing out of the room, but he was halted by a cry from the gunsmith on the ground, full of one last burst of hysterical despair. “I’m sorry! Please… forgive me,” His words were heavy as he shut his eyes, Arthur pretending to miss the wetness gathering around the man’s eyelids. “I know it was wrong. I just couldn’t face that he was gone,”

Arthur didn’t stop him as the man shifted himself, clumsily pulling himself to his feet and reaching for something in his back pocket. He ignored Arthur’s shotgun pointed at his face, focusing on the young man gripping the staircase, who was watching the gunsmith with an expression Arthur couldn’t read.

It was a photograph, crinkled from being handled too much and worn from being pressed in a pocket for too long. He held it with a delicateness that made it seem like it would crumble to ash at any second, his words unsteady and full of a sorrow Arthur could understand. “I was teaching Sammy how to handle the rifle proper, out by the river. The recoil… shot him backwards. He slipped into the river… the water pulled his downstream so  _ quick _ ,” The gunsmith was crying now, sniffling as he spoke harshly around the sobs. “It all happened so fast, I didn’t know what to do! I searched up and down that riverbank for days, but I couldn’t find my boy…”

Arthur had been expecting something… else.

He suddenly wished he was anywhere but here, where the room was beginning to feel cold and suffocating, the grief of someone else’s making his chest feel like cotton. His mind was starting to go down pathways he hadn’t taken in years — directions he’d forcibly pulled away from — and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand this.

Some part of him wanted to shoot the man, but the gun had since returned to its holster, Arthur unable to recall when he’d done so. He watched as the man crumbled to his knees, spitting around his sobs at the young man, “And you! You reminded me of him. You look just like him…”

The young man was gone, having sprinted up the steps before the gunsmith could change his mind. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Robin beside him, a heavy look in her eyes as she shook her head; he didn’t need to shoot the man, not really, because looking at how he hunched over forward and sobbed, the gunsmith wouldn’t be moving anywhere for a while. He heard the man say something about not caring anymore, that they could take whatever they wanted, but Arthur felt more than conflicted without even needing to steal from the man.

He found himself following Robin, feeling like an old dog being dragged on a leash as she led him upstairs, leaving the man to sob alone in his cold basement. The other man was long gone and Arthur realized that he didn’t really care about him anymore; he was free to do whatever he pleased and put this behind him. Maybe Arthur should do the same — maybe he shouldn’t have involved either of them in this to begin with.

It was warmer outside than in the basement, and the slight slap of the temperature change brought him back to reality. He felt himself beginning to drift, spiraling down into thoughts that had landed him knee-deep in drunken fistfights and chest-high in alcohol-induced loneliness; he couldn’t afford that right now, none of them could. But he could feel Robin’s hand on his shoulder, soft and sturdy, and he wanted to feel her fingers in his palms.

He mounted Aegean as Robin hopped into Armadillo’s saddle, knowing they should get out of here before their trouble went noticed. He didn’t want to go back to camp just yet, needing to be away from the activity, and he contemplated spurring Aegean and riding away before Robin could catch up. But he realized that he wanted to ride away, alone, but with Robin there as well. He didn’t want to talk, but he wanted somewhere to be there — someone who could just know he needed them but not needing to be spoken to — and Robin understood in ways others didn’t. So he met her gaze for a moment knowing she’d get the message, and spurred Aegean forward, heading in the opposite direction of camp and towards the north.

They were silent for a while, Arthur settling into that broody blanket of his whole Robin merely waited patiently, allowing him to merely exist for a moment. It was the middle of the night now, the sky clear and freckled with stars; he used to know a lot of the constellations from Hosea but now he’d forgotten them in favor of other things — he knew the Big Dipper, though, and he spotted Orion’s Belt as Aegean naturally followed the road due north. It wasn’t awkward but there was weight between them, words going unspoken as the resonance of what happened went unsaid. He’d talk at some point, but now he just wanted to drift, and Robin didn’t seem to kind that one bit.

It wasn’t until Arthur spotted the familiar area around Ringneck Creek that he eased Aegean to a halt; he’d been there with Javier one time to fish recently, and he’d found the spot to be somewhat relaxing. He dismounted and settled himself on one of the rocks by the pond, watching the rock bass and bluegill swim lazily beneath the water. Robin sat beside him, bringing her legs to her chest as she rested her chin on her knees, her eyes focusing on a frog perched on the shoreline.

In a way, Arthur was grateful Robin spoke first, because he wasn’t sure if this harsh blanket of dejection would’ve fallen from his shoulders without it. The area was quiet enough that she didn't have to go much above a whisper, her voice soft enough that she might’ve been whispering anyways. “You okay?”

“Not really,” He was used to telling anyone who asked  _ I’m fine  _ that he hesitated for a second, realizing that he had one of the only people next to him whom he felt comfortable being that honest with. “I ain’t right  _ now _ , at least — will be later, though,”

“Wanna be alone for a while?”

He usually said  _ yes _ , but as he sat there with her, Robin’s natural warmth and patience warding off the desolation that was tugging at his chest, Arthur knew that now wasn’t one of those times… he kind of needed her for a bit, in that sense. “No,”

Robin nodded, leaving it at that, knowing from their many previous conversations like this that Arthur would talk when he needed to. Unprovoked was the best way to get him talking, because he had this primal instinct to keep everything bottled up that the only way to confess was to allow it to happen naturally; he was working on that, but it wasn’t something he could simply push away. Years of being conditioned to say nothing and do whatever was needed had sewn his mouth shut, practically erasing any compulsion to confide in others in favor of merely… ignoring himself. It was what made it hard for him to look in the mirror sometimes, and what compelled him to write in his journal rather than say anything to anyone.

His hands needed to do something, and he felt himself seeking his journal from his satchel and spreading it across his legs, his eyes riding the edges of the pond and the outline of the trees as he transferred it onto the paper. The sound of graphite on parchment alongside the chattering of nighttime wildlife was like a calming song, wearing down that lingering defensive tension in his blood as he captured the pond onto his journal’s pages. Robin had her eyes shut and he knew she was listening to the pencil on the paper and the crickets chirping amongst the trees; sometimes a fish would get too close to the surface and send a splash through the water, or a critter of some kind would scamper across the fallen leaves. He let his hand drift along the paper, adding an impossible amount of detail as he let himself stall, the conflict between talking — and knowing he  _ should _ talk — fighting tooth and nail with the part of him that screamed at him to stay silent.

_ Why was it so hard for him? _ He didn’t get how Sean could blabber on for hours, talking about embarrassing things from within his head and not even realizing he was doing so. He didn’t understand how Mary-Beth knew what to say when things were tough, or how Abigail was stern yet sweet when she caught sight of someone brooding away from camp. Hosea was too good at knowing exactly the kind of reassurances someone needed and just the way to say them, and Dutch was a magnificent talker that could approach anything from any angle. Arthur was charismatic in his own right, but when it came to talking about  _ himself _ , it was like he no longer knew how to speak.

Eventually, a tiny pebble of courage bubbled into existence inside him, and he grasped onto it before it could drift away. He was aware of how uncertain he sounded, yet surprised that his words still came out sturdy and clear. “I could’ve been like that man,”

Robin had drifted a little bit, her response slightly delayed as she opened her eyes and turned to face him. He couldn’t meet her gaze, keeping his eyes on the fish swimming beneath the pond’s surface, but he felt that soft curiosity drilling into him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Arthur angled the pencil so he could add the sharp lines of the tree’s bark onto the paper, relishing in doing something so he could focus intently on the grief blossoming within him. He had talked about  _ them _ in almost a decade now, and there was a reason for that. Hosea and Dutch caught on quickly that Arthur wanted to forget, and it had been working, the thought of them fading away as he hardened himself into the devoted enforcer he was now. But something had been working away at that — his desire to be good, maybe, or possibly the harsh reality that the time of outlaws was ending — and the slap to the face that was  _ change _ was making his skin burn. Their names were on his tongue but he couldn’t say them, couldn’t bring himself to do so.

Thank god Robin was observant; she understood what he wasn’t saying, the weight in his words that signaled a grief long since past. Her voice was warm and sympathetic and it made Arthur realize that such expressions didn’t come from personality alone, but from experience. “Grief makes people do strange things sometimes,”

Arthur merely nodded, dragging the pencil in harsh lines as he added the cattails growing by the pond’s edge; there really wasn’t much else he could add, but he needed his hands to do something and Grimshaw was getting annoyed with him stretching out the cuffs on his shirts. There was a tough moment of hesitation as Arthur eventually decided to shut his journal, tucking it back into its usual spot in his satchel, forcibly resisting the natural urge to start picking at the edges of his shirt — it was new, and he wasn’t eager to ruin the stitching on it just yet.

Hosea teased Arthur about him being an open book, and Arthur was constantly reminded that he wasn’t as good at hiding his emotions as he thought. Which was why he wasn’t as surprised as he should’ve been when Robin placed a hand on his knee, palm facing up, serving as an offer in case he wanted it. He let his hand drift over into her fingers, feeling the scars on her fingertips and leaning into the warmth of her palm. Her hands were delicate, fingers long and dexterous, harshly contrasting the strength and roughness of Arthur’s hands; callouses from holding his guns, the swell of scars from many reckless games of Five Finger Fillet, burns from when he wasn’t paying attention when he struck matches or threw fire bottles.

He found himself relishing her touch, the softness of her fair skin and the warmth of her hand in his. He wasn’t used to touch not being accompanied by aggression, and it felt odd — calming and kind, sure, but strange. There was a part of him, one of the fragments from his cruel childhood, that wanted to recoil and cringe whenever someone touched him. He used to a lot when he first met Dutch, back when he was a frenzied boy and frantic like a startled rabbit. He thought about the sharp pain of his father’s fists, the tightness of cold strangers’ fingers when they grabbed and shoved him, and it was a constant reminder of the pain touch could bring.

But Robin was different. She reminded him of the warmth of his mother’s hands as she held him when he’d cried, of Hosea’s proud pats to the back, when Dutch beamed and shook his hand after a successful job. There was nothing but  _ good _ when she held his hand, the soft touch of pure kindness and compassion — the presence of someone who genuinely cared.

“Sorry for…” Arthur sighed, shrugging, feeling Robin’s fingers run along the back of his palm; his hand was so much larger than hers and he was constantly wondering if he’d accidentally crush it. He waved his other hand, the one that he’d been leaning on, out at the area in front of them. “ _ This _ ,”

It  _ was _ his fault; he’d dragged her along out of fear of blowing his cover in a town’s business he was growing increasingly involved in. Arthur could’ve handled it alone, but he’d been selfish, asking Robin because she wouldn’t judge him for wasting his time doing something that, frankly, didn’t involve him one bit — something that shouldn’t have been his concern but he went and got himself “concerned” about anyways. Arthur found himself wondering if maybe someone else would’ve broken into that basement and freed the man, but as he contemplated it for a moment, Arthur realized people weren’t as foolish as he was; no one would’ve done anything, the simple fact that it wasn’t  _ their _ business enough of a deterrent to ensure that.

“Just because it was your  _ idea _ doesn’t mean it was your  _ fault _ ,” Robin said, squeezing his hand. “I know you want to blame yourself, Arthur, but you didn’t cause that,”

He sighed, long and deep, feeling like he was wilting as he exhaled heavily. “I know… Really, I do — think it’s a habit, or somethin’,”

“I understand,” Arthur knew she did; she had a tendency to understand a lot of the things Arthur experienced, both good and bad. There was a wisdom in her words that was humbling, even though it was somewhat of a harsh reality check. “It’s easier to blame yourself than to accept that sometimes… well, sometimes bad shit happens for no reason at all,”

Arthur knew that there were few things in his life that he had actual control over, and maybe that was why he felt like whatever happened needed to be a result of his actions. Robin was right; it was easier to blame himself for what happened because at least he could understand why. He knew it was his fault when he talked shit to someone and they punched him, but he didn’t know why some people were keen on punching him for no reason other than that he was  _ there _ . He knew he was responsible for death when he aimed his gun and pulled the trigger, but he didn’t know why good people whom he loved died; he didn’t pull the trigger on their bullets, and yet he found ways to blame himself for it.

The truth was, well, bad things happened to everyone and most of the time there was no reason behind it. Arthur didn’t believe in karma or fate or any of that nonsense, but even he knew that sometimes things just  _ were _ , and the reasons behind such things would never be known. He didn’t have to be responsible for everything that happened to him — good, bad, meaningless, or valuable, shit happened regardless of whether or not he asked for it. Maybe it was his father’s persistent telling that “it was always his fault;” Arthur didn’t know, but it was as bad a habit as chain smoking or binge drinking.

Maybe he blamed himself because he thought he deserved it.

“You don't need to tell me,” Robin’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and laced with that sincerity that made it so easy to talk to her. But as she sat there, her knees drawn up to her chest and a hand wrapped in his, she didn’t look as confident as her words sounded. “But… whatever it was that happened to you, you didn’t deserve it,”

It could’ve meant a million things, and maybe that was why she’d phrased it the way she did, but it found that one hidden pebble of misery that lurked in his chest and it  _ snatched _ it. He saw their faces for the first time in years, and this time he didn’t recoil, didn’t cringe away like he was the one who had shot and killed them. They hadn’t asked for it — they didn’t deserve it — but… Arthur didn’t, either, not really…

“Thanks,” Was all he could say, the tightness in his throat almost suffocating. He found his hand needing hers now more than ever, wanting that touch and the groundedness it brought along with it. He felt her thumb run circles along the back of his hand, and whether she was conscious of it or not, Arthur found his focus narrowing to the softness of her fingers along his skin. 

She was making him feel things he hadn’t felt in forever, and he wasn’t sure what to do with it; it scared him, but part of him also sought it out. There was so much chaos ensuing around him now — the mess with Blackwater, these Braithwaites and Grays, Hosea’s illness,  _ Mary _ — and Robin had become a constant he needed now more than ever. He hadn’t allowed himself to connect with anyone for years, never having the time nor the means to do so. But Robin was here, obviously caring about him and getting closer than he’d ever gotten with  _ anyone _ , and Arthur wasn’t certain what to do with it. But he was grasping each of these moments in an iron grip, desperately hoping that they weren’t fleeting — that they would vanish amongst the gunfights and the cons, lost to the world Arthur had lost himself to.

“Robin?”

“Yeah?”

“I, um, I know you’ve been through them bad things, too,” Arthur wasn’t good at these things, but he was going to try, especially after all Robin had said and done for him. He hoped she could see the message in his graceless words, ignoring the uncertain way he tended to speak whenever things grew…  _ vulnerable _ . “And, well, I’m sure you ain’t any more deservin’ of them than I am of mine,”

Robin had proven to be one of the strongest people Arthur ever had the pleasure of meeting, but she suddenly looked incredibly weak. She took in a deep breath, shaky and fragmented, and Arthur really hoped he wasn’t about to make her cry. He wasn’t sure if it was okay, since she’d been the one to instigate these moments of closeness, but he leaned into her and wrapped an arm around her. The positioning was somewhat awkward — Robin huddled up in a ball with her knees against her chest, Arthur sitting with his legs crossed, the height and size difference — but neither of them gave it much notice. He leaned into her, an arm wrapped around her back and her hand still clasped in his, pushing her against his side as she faded into his touch. 

At this point, Arthur knew she wouldn’t pull away, but he expected her to tense or flinch; Arthur was much larger than her and he wasn’t one to display such vulnerable expressions of intimacy. But she leaned into him, slinking her arm around Arthur’s side and drawing him closer. He couldn’t see her face but he was praying there weren’t tears going down it. But she was quiet, her breaths shallow and calm, no sniffling or sobbing or anything like that.

“You’re a good man, Arthur,”

“Well, you’re a bit biased,”

She laughed, Arthur feeling a smile flood his face at the sound, a chuckle escaping him when she nudged her elbow playfully into his side. “Maybe,”


	13. Clemens Point [6] | Magicians for Sport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bounty hunters catch up to Trelawny; Arthur really needs a vacation.

Arthur liked Josiah, but he didn’t understand him,  _ not one bit _ .

There weren’t a lot of words that could describe Trelawny, but Arthur often found himself settling on one; cunning. Trelawny could worm his way in and out of places like a weasel in a top hat, extracting himself with information no one else could’ve acquired. He vanished on end for weeks, going who knows where doing who knows what, but he always returned with money or the promise of it. Charming in a way that wasn’t unlike a siren song, Josiah could maneuver himself right into the middle of trouble and come out of it without a scratch, pockets stuffed with valuables and knowing things he shouldn’t. He’d been with them for years and not once had he failed them, his loyalty astounding and, frankly, refreshing; Arthur understood exactly why Dutch cherished the man, because that unwavering fealty was a rare find in a world full of people out to get each other.

But even Trelawny wasn’t immune to the troubles that followed the Van der Linde Gang — he was a part of it, after all — and looking down at the blood in the caravan the man had supposedly been occupying, Arthur knew it had finally caught up to him.

It wasn’t a lot, yet it was enough to strike a needle of trepidation in Arthur’s gut, but combined with the rest of the caravan’s state, it made Arthur nervous; Trelawny was a runner, not a fighter, and judging by the numerous signs of some form of altercation, the man hadn’t been able to do much running. He had abandoned a sandwich and knocked over a cup of coffee, fresh and still slightly warm, meaning they’d been there recently enough. The mattress stuffed in the corner wasn’t made — Trelawny was weird in the way that he left the rooms he stayed in cleaner than when he’d arrived — and the tiny furniture crammed into the room was knocked over and scattered. There was blood on the floor, a pool the size of a dinner plate, as well as on a washbasin in a tiny room Arthur assumed was the bathroom of some sort. The blood was smeared and led outside; Trelawny had been dragged, bleeding and battered, and Arthur knew for certain that the man was in trouble.

“There’s some blood here…” Arthur gestured at the trail leading out the back of the caravan, Charles crouching down to examine it further. “That ain’t good,”

“How much?” Robin asked from her spot outside, her pistol drawn as she eyed the area around them, just to be safe. Dutch had suggested bringing Robin along, to give her a chance to introduce herself to Trelawny, but now Arthur realized the man had suggested out of worry rather than convenience; Dutch knew trouble was lurking around the edges of their trail, and Trelawny wasn’t as good at avoiding trouble as the rest of them were.

“Um… not enough to be a bullet,” Arthur wasn’t certain what kind of answer she was looking for. “Kind of a lot,”

She scoffed. “‘Kind of?’”

“There’s a pool…?”

“Big struggle,” Charles said, standing up from his crouch and eyeing the area with attentiveness, catching sight of things Arthur missed with tracking skills Arthur could never surpass. Charles taught him what he could but the man was simply a genius whenever it came to those types of things — no doubt why Dutch had suggested him in addition to Robin. “Pretty recently, I’d say,”

Arthur turned to face him, Charles looking slightly uneasy, which was more emotion than the man had a tendency to show. “How recent?”

“I guess, maybe, uh…” He settled on an answer after one final look around the caravan, making his way outside, eyes drifting along the crimson bootprints peppering the creaking floorboards. “Twelve hours ago?”

“But no body?” Arthur followed Charles’s gaze, hoping to see a fragment of whatever the other man was focusing on. He saw disturbances in the ground’s pattern, but he couldn’t be certain.

“Not yet,”

Arthur hummed in thought for a second. Twelve hours was a considerable amount of time for something like this — Arthur knew just how far someone could travel in that many hours, injured or kidnapping someone or otherwise — and they were severely disadvantaged at this point. Arthur had no doubt Charles could find the man, but whether he was dead, alive, or beaten to a pulp, Arthur could only hope for the best.

“Hmm, look,” Charles pointed to a dusty break in the grass, and as Arthur leaned over to examine the pathway further, he could see the irregularities in the dirt; small indents that looked like hoof prints, light and easy to miss, but there nonetheless. “Tracks, they went down the path here…”

Robin whistled for Armadillo, who had wandered off in his pursuit for greener grasses to graze upon. The three of them mounted once Armadillo emerged from around the back of one of the caravan’s huts, shuffling on his feet as Robin mounted him.

“How’s your tracking these days?” Charles injured, voice amicable as he fell into line behind Arthur, who nudged Aegean into a slow trot.

“Alright, I guess,” He wouldn’t have trouble hunting down an animal after a sizable chunk of time had gone down — he’d found that fox after it had vanished for several days, after all — and he could follow hoof tracks well enough. But he caught the slight lilt in the man’s voice, which was about as teasing as Charles allowed himself to get.

“Well,” He couldn’t see the man’s face, but Arthur had a feeling he was smiling slightly. “Lead the way, then,”

Arthur merely shrugged, leaning over in the saddle to keep a firm eye on the tracks below him. They were light and alarmingly easy to miss, and Arthur assumed that meant time wasn’t in their favor; he couldn’t even tell how many horses there had been. But it was visible and Arthur could easily follow it, walking Aegean alongside the pathway so not to disturb the trail.

“Not the kind of place I’d expect to see Trelawny stayin’ in,” Arthur said, rounding onto one of the main roads as the trail led towards Rhodes. He doubted whoever had taken Trelawny would go through such a populated area, but Arthur knew the trail would vanish if they went through town.

“No?”

He’d momentarily forgotten that both Robin and Charles had only met Trelawny a handful of times, the former only once outside of the bar in Valentine, the latter a mere couple times in the months he’d been with them. Charles and Trelawny were complete opposites — the pair got along well enough, never really venturing out of necessary conversation — but Arthur had no idea what to expect once Robin met him (legitimately, this time, not when his neck was gushing blood in the middle of a muddy livestock town); Josiah was good with people but sometimes he was an awful lot to handle. Arthur merely hoped they’d be able to get the man away from whatever trouble had found him, and that the blood they’d found hadn't been his alone.

Arthur continued. “Normally scams himself into the best hotel in town,”

“You think he caused trouble in town?” Robin inquired, Arthur sparing a glance upward and catching her subdued worry; even though she didn’t know the man well, she still held a kind degree of concern for him.

“Ain’t sure,” Arthur admitted. “But we’d have heard somethin’ by now, seen it, even,”

“I haven’t seen him around Rhodes,” Robin said. “Seems like the kind of man who’d make an  _ impression _ in a town like that,”

Arthur chuckled. “That he is,”

“You know…” Charles began, his voice light and amicable, despite the very real possibility that the man in question might be in deep trouble. “When me and Javier went down with Trelawny to get Sean, after the bar fight? I swear he talked the whole way and never actually said a damn thing,”

“I thought you knew that’s his special talent,” Arthur quibbed, slowing down for a moment to reacquainted the tracks. Thankfully, they were leading away from town, but Arthur allowed himself to express a moment of doubt to the pair. “They could be twenty miles away by now,”

Charles was confident in his response. “We can track them that far if we need to. Depends on how much you want to find them,”

“Yeah…” Arthur responded, feeling a bit uneasy as the trail led over the railroad tracks and towards the forest, which would be just as difficult as the town if the trail went through there, potentially lost amongst the branches and foliage. “I still ain’t sure about that,”

“These tracks lead into the forest here,” Charles said, urging Arthur to slow down as they recollected themselves. He could see the trail in the dried dirt of the main road, drifting off and into the grass, directly leading to a small campfire hidden amongst the trees. He spotted a pair of men, one hunched over a dying fire and the other slouched beneath a canvas tent, both looking relaxed and entirely unconcerned with a trio of very armed individuals approaching them. It was clear that the trail led either to or through where the men were.

“So we ask them if they saw anything?” Robin inquired, Arthur responding with a nod before dismounting Aegean, Charles and Robin quickly following suit.

They were dressed nicer than those he usually encountered out in these parts, the one sitting wearing a vest Arthur could tell was well made, hair groomed back, skin devoid of any dirt or grease; the one sitting beneath the canvas wasn’t much different, his button-down lacking wrinkles and looking far too clean for being out camping in the forest. Arthur couldn’t make assumptions, but he found himself drawing conclusions as he assumed a direct, albeit friendly, demeanor.

“Have you seen…” Arthur cleared his throat, making a conscious effort  _ not _ to sound like he was beginning a discreet interrogation, instead asking an unassuming question that was not as direct and potentially suspicious. “We’re, uh, lookin’ for our friend,”

The man eyed him with a hint of amusement, Arthur ignoring the subtle bit of exasperation in his tone. “I don’t think he’s here…”

Arthur chuckled merely to indulge him, glancing over at Charles, who was looking tense as his eyes focused on something in front of him. “Nah, you see a… strange sort of feller? Sort of formal?”

“Strange, sure,” The man replied, dragging the words out in a way that irked Arthur immediately. “Formal, no,”

Charles crouched down and collected something from the ground, the motion making the man beneath the tarp throw himself onto his feet, tense like a snake ready to strike. Charles waved the cane in his hand for a second, his voice dangerously low as he said to the man in front of Arthur, “He uses a cane, looks a lot like  _ this _ one,”

The tension blossomed, harsh and electric, Arthur wasting no time before he launched himself at the man closest to him, Charles taking the other while Robin grasped Taima’s reins, the horse spooked at the sudden hostility. The man leaned into his punches, showing experience that confirmed Arthur’s suspicions; Trelawny had encountered some bounty hunters — perhaps they were these “super agents” he’d gone on about previously. But Arthur was adept at brawling, merely swerving out of the way of the man’s fist and landing a solid blow to his abdomen, taking advantage of the man’s momentary loss of breath to knock him out with a well-aimed punch to the forehead. He collapsed unconscious and Arthur caught the last moments of Charles’s fight, watching as he punched the man in the throat and slammed him into the ground, pinning him onto his back with a boot to the neck.

Arthur moved towards the other bounty hunter, who was squirming against the pressure on his neck, grasping Charles’s ankle in a fruitless attempt to alleviate it. Charles moved out of the way to allow him to take his spot, Arthur grabbing the man’s shirt and hauling him upward, slamming the back of his hand into the man’s chin to get him talking.

“Tell me where he is!”

The man groaned against the blow, but he had enough stupidity left in him to snarl out against the blood bubbling in his mouth, “Go to hell!” Arthur raised his hand, ready to punch the man again when he sputtered out almost immediately, “Okay… okay, for Christ’s sake… they took him to a cabin, over by the cornfields,”

That could’ve been anywhere; Rhodes was surrounded by cornfields. Arthur shook the man slightly, not trusting how easy he was getting information out of the man. “Which cornfields?”

“Left… down the path there,” He pointed due south, Arthur recognizing the area immediately and hoped they wouldn’t have to get too close. “By Braithwaite Manor,”

They couldn’t afford the man following them — he’d given them all they needed, regardless — so Arthur punched him hard in the face, feeling his nose shift abnormally beneath his fingers as he fell back into the dirt. Robin made a remark about how crooked the man’s nose would be, but Arthur merely rolled his eyes, mounting up alongside the pair as he spurred Aegean forward, following Charles as he led them around the Braithwaite Manor.

Charles took the lead, directing the horses onto the backroads surrounding the manor, pointedly ignoring the pathways that would lead them closer. Arthur could feel Robin’s eyes on him, and he met her gaze, her voice not revealing anything other than a barely detectable hint of worry as she asked, “You good?”

“Sure,” Arthur responded, knowing the weight behind the words;  _ is this something we need to talk about later _ ? The answer was no, but they had more pressing matters to worry about.

“What do you think they want with Trelawny?” Charles asked, urging the horses into a faster pace as they entered onto one of the main roads, Arthur catching sight of the Braithwaite tobacco fields behind the trees.

“Could be any one of a hundred things,” Arthur responded. “Just depends if any of them involve us,”

He included Robin in that “us,” because she’d become as much a part of the gang as the rest of them, at this point. Perhaps her status had become known — that Robin Rivera was now running with Dutch Van der Linde — and she had a sizable bounty on her head that information would go a long way towards collecting it; almost all of them had prices on their heads, but not a lot of them had ones as large as Robin’s.

“You think he’ll talk?”

“Of  _ course _ he’ll talk,” Arthur replied. “He’d sell his own sister to save a train fare! He don’t know how  _ not _ to talk…”

Josiah knew sensitive information about each and every member of the gang, which was why it was so imperative that they got him back. Unfortunately, that information wasn’t locked up right; Trelawny succumbed easily to intimidation, and there was no telling what he’d say once a knife got involved. But the man’s somewhat disconnected involvement with the gang meant that he didn’t know  _ everything _ relating to them, which was a small comfort amidst the pressing realization that there  _ was _ a possibility the man’s capture would screw them over.

“He don't know where we’re holed up, though,” Arthur admitted. “Least, I don’t think he does,”

“I don’t know why Dutch still deals with him,” Charles said, genuine confusion in the man’s voice — subtle and hard to detect, but Arthur was good enough friends with him to catch it. “Always disappearing for weeks on end,”

Arthur often questioned that as well. Trelawny being out and about, knowing all he did and doing who-knows-what, he was a threat to the secrecy of the gang in that way. Arthur had no doubt that the man was loyal and trustworthy, but he lacked the attributes someone knee-deep in the outlaw pursuit needed; he didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut, his prowess with a weapon was next to nonexistent, and he had a tendency to overestimate himself.

But even with all that, the man was valuable, and Arthur had no trouble admitting it. “He’s got his uses, and, well… loyalty matters to Dutch,”

“Of course, but is Trelawny loyal?”

“Kind of…” Arthur said, hearing Robin chuckle softly from behind him, muffled behind the sound of three pairs of hoofbeats. “I guess Trelawny ain’t exactly  _ disloyal… _ just got a big mouth,” Arthur made sure to remedy that. “Don’t worry. If he talked, I’ll goddamn find out what he said,”

Arthur spotted the shattered remains of the battlefield scattered across Bolger Glade, the rusted-out cannons and the uneven trenches; Rhodes really was trapped in a blanket of its own bloody history. They followed the pathway alongside it, wrapping around the debris as they approached the cornfield from the back way, cutting through the space between the fields as they rounded up on the cabin.

The sun hit him harshly as he dismounted Aegean, tossing his repeater and shotgun over his shoulders, just to be safe. He spotted Robin drawing her rifle as she dismounted alongside him, angling it comfortably between her shoulder blades and keeping a hand close to her holster, the sound of harsh movement within the cabin making the trio tense and ready themselves.

The door burst open, Trelawny looking even worse than Arthur was expecting. He was bruised, fine vest unbuttoned and torn, white dress shirt gray with grime, dirt, and splattered with his own blood, his hair tangled and matted; there was a wound on his temple, blood running down the side of his face and cutting through the discoloration of previous blows on his skin. Carried almost limply by two men on either side of him, his legs dragged against the wooden patio of the cabin, Josiah groaning heavily at the unceremonious movements, unable to move against the tight bindings around his wrists and the weakness in his limbs. Arthur caught one of the bounty hunters making a sharp threat, amusement tugging at his words, but he was quickly halted when three sidearms were aimed at his face.

“Put the man down, gentlemen,” Arthur growled, pointing his revolver at the man with the top hat, whom Arthur decided was more annoying than the one gambler hat.

The one with the gambler hat and a mousy beard complied immediately, dropping Josiah’s arm and bolting in the direction of the corn fields. Obviously seeing that he wasn’t going to outshoot three guns already aimed at his chest, the one with the top had let go of Trelawny’s other arm and quickly joined his friend as he fled. Josiah collapsed without the harsh support of the bounty hundreds on either arm, grunting as he fell into the dust below him. Charles rushed forward, hardly looking as he ran a knife through the rope around Josiah's wrists before hurriedly making chase after the bounty hunters.

Robin was already getting down to business, prodding and poking at the injuries littering Josiah’s form, the man looking surprised to see her. It didn’t last, however, as Arthur crouched down and asked, “That the lot of them?”

Josiah groaned when Robin pressed a hand on his shoulder, testing the joint as the man attempted to raise himself into a semblance of a sitting position. “I… I think so,”

Arthur took the hint and carefully helped Josiah to an upright position, the man hunching forward and tense beneath whatever pains wracked his body. Arthur began a lighthearted tease, knowing Trelawny wasn’t one for the straightforward forms of comfort. “So you’re alive,”

“Allegedly,” Josiah retorted amicably, voice tight as he spoke around a harsh exhale. Robin handed Arthur a knife that he used to cut through the bindings on his ankles, the man nodding in thanks and glancing over at Robin curiously. “Ah, Miss Rivera, a pleasure to see you again. Perhaps not the best of circumstances, but—“

“I’ve got this, Arthur,” Robin said, waving a hand in the direction of Charles. “Go, get them,”

It was as good a cue as any. Giving the pair one last glance, feeling somewhat guilty for reasons he couldn’t explain, Arthur threw himself into a sprint as he followed after Charles. He drew his revolver, sprinting in the direction of the corn fields, already seeing the plan the bounty hunters had concocted; they were going to try and get lost in the plants, slipping away while Arthur and Charles were forced into a brusque game of cat and mouse. It might’ve worked, had it not been bright as hell outside and the corn thin with a lack of water — he spotted one of them immediately, attempting to hide amongst the stalks on the right.

“Don’t let ‘me get away!” Arthur called out to Charles, who dove into the fields on the left. “Could have told ‘em anythin’,”

Arthur burst into the cornfield, the plants dried-up leaves tearing at his clothes and making his skin itch. He spotted a flash of black amidst the cornstalks, and he lowered his pistol to his hip as he rapidly shot several shots into the plants; one was bound to hit something. One of the bullets struck true, a pained scream cutting through the air — judging by the heavy thud that followed, one of the shots had hit something fatal. But Arthur couldn’t waste time checking, instead he ran somewhat haphazardly through the plants, making a beeline into the direction of a burst of birds issuing from the field.

Charles shouted something about the birds, Arthur spotting him venturing in the direction of them as well, using the clearings between fields to catch the other man in case he tried to bolt. But Arthur was already shooting, a burst of blue cutting through the stalks as he shot several bullets into the plants. He got a scream in return, a group of cornstalks collapsing as the man fell into them, Arthur’s bullets meeting their target; there was still one more, and unfortunately, he’d been a lot better at fleeing than his friends were.

Arthur broke out of the corn stalks, running alongside the field as he peered through the rows of plants. He spotted Charles doing the same, sawed-off shotgun raised and a sharp look in his eyes, determined and focused as he peeled apart of the cornfield with a trained gaze. But Arthur was struggling, no signs of the other bounty hunter reaching him, and he allowed a sliver of worry to worm into his gut when he reached the end of the cornfields and was forced to double back.

“Hey, I see something on the ground here!” Charles called, Arthur holding back a relieved sigh as he jogged towards the man, following his gaze as he entered the cornstalks. There was a bundle of something wrapped in canvas, Arthur catching sight of the bloodied remains of various tools and devices — undoubtedly used to get Josiah to talk. Charles crouched down to examine them further before saying, “He’s dumped his gear, look around, he can’t have gone far,”

Charles was right; that amount of gear would’ve taken a chunk of time to properly dispose of, meaning he had to still be in the fields with them. Arthur kept his revolver raised as he patrolled through the rows of corn in what he hoped was somewhat of a systematic process, hunched over as he looked for tracks and keeping his eyes peeled for the color of clothing between the stalks. An eerie quiet settled on the fields, Arthur feeling himself tense against the brewing unease settling inside him; Josiah shouted something in annoyance up on the hill, where Robin was undoubtedly poking and prodding over the injuries covering the man. It was a moment of distraction that was taken advantage of, and Arthur wasn’t even allowed a moment to shout when a rope was wrapped around his throat and he was yanked harshly to the ground.

He couldn’t breathe.

There was a lasso around his neck, strangling him, dragging him along the ground like an animal shot dead in a river. He was pulled across the dirt as a man cackled behind him — that last bounty hunter — and Arthur thrashed against the hold around his neck. He felt the man press him towards the ground, Arthur’s vision beginning to swim as Charles burst through the corn. He saw a moment of panic on the man’s features, but he surprised it quickly, forced to raise his hands in surrender when the bounty hunter aimed a pistol at his chest.

The man spoke, but he was starting to sound muffled, Arthur’s head feeling like it was filling up with cotton as his chest clenched against the air his lungs couldn’t receive. It became difficult to kick, his hands desperately tugging at the lasso tightened around his throat, but the man had too tight of a grip and the rope was too thick to tear through. It wasn’t the first time Arthur had been strangled, but it hadn’t gotten this close to finally suffocating and passing out.

And then it was gone, a knife thrown into the bounty hunter’s chest by Charles, Arthur tugging the rope away from his neck and forcing himself onto his knees. He gasped and wheezed, his lungs expanding as he took his first breath in what felt like hours, the tightness in his throat still alarmingly apparent but Arthur recognized it as the pressure before a bruise formed. He hated how unsteady he felt as he rose to his feet, hardly able to get a thanks out to Charles between the harsh breathing and the coughs threatening to escape him.

“Shit…” Arthur rubbed at his neck, his lungs beginning to recollect themselves as he nodded at Charles, aware of the unfiltered concern the man was sending his way — silent, but still showing worry. “Thank you,”

Charles might’ve responded, had the gunshots not started. Arthur got low to the ground, acutely aware of the distinct lack of cover around them, identifying the source of the bullets immediately; a giant barn, raised off the ground and presumably used for some form of processing, serving as a makeshift hideaway for some kind of backup bounty hunters. Arthur shot in their direction, knowing the bullets would make them hide behind the walls in the barn, slowly inching forward with Charles. He heard the sharp sound of a rifle discharging, and he watched as one of the men’s chests exploded, a high-caliber bullet burst through his skin. He recognized Robin’s handiwork anywhere — the accuracy was impeccable, and he saw her standing by the cabin on the hill, peering down the scope of her rifle and allowing them to advance when the bounty hunters cowered beneath the threat of a sniper shot.

Arthur wasted no time entering the bar, the contrast between the bright sun and the shaded room blinding him for a second. Recollecting himself, he heard Charles shout something about one of them retreating, and he saw the bounty hunter attempting to exit through a back door in the bar. Shooting his square in the head, he collapsed against the wall, sliding down the wood and landing lifelessly onto the floorboards.

“Good,” Charles holstered his sawed-off, allowing himself to relax a tiny bit. “He should be the last of them,”

Arthur crouched down by the man’s corpse, lifting his body up slightly and extracting the rifle he had attempted to shoot them with. It was ornate, blue-steel carvings along polished oak ingrains, obviously hand-crafted and delicately made. The scope was impressive, Arthur able to tell that its zoom caliber was high, and a thought occurred to him.

“Robin’ll make good use of this,” Arthur said, flipping the rifle in his hands and showing Charles, who gave something of a small smile as his eyes traveled along the weapon.

“She’s a talented shot,”

“Sure is,” He shouldered the rifle for now, resisting the urge to press a hand against the ache in his throat. “Alright, let’s go back for Trelawny, see how they’re gettin’ on,” Heading towards the exit, he spared a glance at Charles, unsure if the lack of expression on his face was a good or bad thing. “You alright?”

“Yeah…” Charles responded, honest and straightforward. “Never goes easy, does it?”

Arthur chuckled. “Sure don’t. C’mon, let’s go see how badly they beat up the slipper feller,”

The thing about Charles is he held enough candor for the both of them, that quick friendship they’d established one of the only places where Arthur felt okay expressing uncertainty; Charles felt the same way, always honest and heartfelt in a way that made Arthur open to talking to him. Perhaps not as much as Robin, but he valued their friendship nonetheless.

“I wonder how much trouble he’s brought with him,” Charles said, voicing a concern Arthur had been nursing for a while, as well. It was surprising to see Trelawny of all people being targeted by bounty hunters, especially considering the man didn’t have a bounty himself; he had information they could use, sure, but Arthur didn’t think it was worth the trouble when the man clearly wasn’t in active contact with the gang. But the possibility that someone could have escaped — that information capable of landing them in deep shit could still be out there — was very real. It wasn’t Trelawny’s fault, of course, and Arthur wasn’t mad at him. But times were tough now, and something like this could have this fragile sense of somewhat-stability shattering into a million pieces in seconds.

Arthur chuckled softly, glancing over at Charles. “Guess we’ll soon find out,”

“Seems like we can’t catch a break now, Arthur,” Charles said, leaning against the doorframe of the barn as Arthur quickly rummaged through the pockets of the bounty hunter Robin shot, finding twenty dollars and a pocket watch in his breast pocket.

“Our luck’s held  _ this _ long,” Arthur responded, tucking the cash to be put in the contribution box for later and the watch to be sold when he got around to it. “We got outta worse scrapes than this one,”

There was a hint of humor in Charles’s response. “So I’ve heard,”

“Sure, what’s government agents and bounty hunters to us?” Arthur joked, stepping out of the barn and onto the grass, the sun immediately making him thirsty. 

“I hope you’re right,”

They found Trelawny sitting in a chair on the cabin’s front porch, looking like a puppet with his strings cut, saddling against the back of the chair heavily. Robin was standing beside him, the box he recognized as her medical kit sitting on the floor next to her. She poured something into a rag and pressed it against a scrape on the man’s cheek, Josiah mumbling his discontent but having long since given up pushing Robin away. Arthur could see that she’d expertly stitched the tiny gash on his temple, wiping away some of the blood from his face, which only served to brighten the bruises on his features. Arthur had taken his fair share of beatings, but Josiah hadn’t; he knew the man wasn’t used to the kind of pain caused by un-pulled punches and whatever other means of pain-inducing those bounty hunters had indulged in.

As the two men approached the pair, Charles let some of his concern through, his eyes trailing along the bruises and blood on the man’s body as he asked, “You okay?”

“Never finer!” The slight slur in his voice and the eye roll from Robin said otherwise, but Arthur knew the man would heal back together in time.

“So,” Arthur said as he stepped beside Robin and nodded to her, wrapping Josiah’s arm around his shoulders while Robin grabbed the man’s waist, the both of them slowly lifting the man to his feet. “Who was they?”

Arthur already knew the answer, but he needed to hear Trelawny confirm it, which — unfortunately — he did, speaking with a hint of distaste around a groan as they lifted him. “They were bounty hunters… attached to Cole Stoudemire,”

“Okay,” Arthur responded, glancing at Robin, who shook her head; the name was entirely unfamiliar, and they’d have to get to work on fixing that as soon as possible — Arthur didn’t like not knowing who they were up against. He helped Robin ease Josiah down the stairs, Charles leading a brown horse he assumed belonged to one of the bounty hunters towards them; it was the only horse that hadn’t bolted at the sight of their riders fleeing, and Arthur wasn’t sure where Gwydion was.

“They weren’t looking for me, per se,” Josiah said, beginning to take on some of his own weight as he finally got moving, Arthur ushering him in the direction of the horse Charles brought forward. But the man still used the pair of them as a set of makeshift crutches, unseen injuries obviously still causing him trouble. 

“What’d you tell them?” Arthur kept it unassuming, despite the fact that he needed to know what Josiah had said, right about  _ now _ .

Whether any accidental hostility slipped out or not, Trelawny gave it no acknowledgement, continuing to explain as he spoke with a tight voice. “Not much. I… told them I was an intellectual…” The man stumbled slightly, Arthur quickly rebalancing him before he continued. “Come down here from Oregon, looking for a job at the university,”

Robin subtracted herself from Josiah’s side as they reached the horse, Charles taking her place as he and Arthur lifted the man into the saddle. Josiah groaned heavily at the movement, hunching forward a bit as he positioned himself in a position that seemed to alleviate some of the pain. Arthur gave the man a light pat on the shoulder when he showed no sign of swaying out of the saddle and spiraling towards the ground.

“Course, they didn’t believe me,” Trelawny gave Arthur a sharp look, a seriousness cutting through his tone. “Seems you stirred up quite a hornet’s nest in Blackwater,”

Arthur handed Josiah the reins, sighing. “So I keep hearin’,”

“It might be best if I stay with you gentlemen for a while, can’t go back to that caravan now,”

“I second that,” Robin said, pulling herself into Armadillo’s saddle and picking apart Josiah’s hunched form, no doubt catching a checkerboard of injuries Arthur’s untrained eyes could see. “He needs proper medical attention, and I don’t have what I need in me — it’s back at camp,”

Arthur nodded. “Alright then, you two take Trelawny back to camp, I’ll catch up with you,”

“Arthur,”

“Yeah?” He turned to face her, Robin looking at him with narrowed eyes before she gestured at his neck, which Arthur had almost entirely forgotten about. “I’ll tell you later,”

“No, you’ll  _ find _ me later,” Her patronizing tone was entirely legitimate, and Arthur had to hide an amused smirk from view. “Need to make sure your trachea hasn’t  _ collapsed _ ,”

He assumed that was something that could be found in his neck — Arthur didn’t know a damn thing about human anatomy. He waved the trio off as Charles took the lead, Robin settling in beside Josiah, undoubtedly in case the man passed out or something on the way back. He watches them for a moment, listening to Josiah’s exuberant voice even if it somewhat twisted from his pain, feeling himself drift towards his thoughts before he spurs Aegean, heading into the direction of Rhodes.

He does catch up with them, several hours later, when the sun is inching towards the horizon and the sky begins to fade pink. He allowed himself a moment to collect some things from the general store, opting to purchase his ammunition there rather than the gunsmith — he didn’t see himself going there anytime soon — and stopped by the post office to check for any mail for the gang; there isn’t any, which could be a good or a bad thing, depending on whether any was to be expected. Regardless, Arthur takes another detour, shooting a deer on his way to camp to hand in to Pearson, who always accepted meat whenever Arthur provided any; venison was a hell of a lot better than the stringy meat rabbits and other small critters yield.

Josiah has clearly been welcomed back as smoothly as he normally does, integrating into the gang like an old friend and settling into its dynamic as if he’d never left. As Arthur deposits the deer carcass at Pearson’s wagon, he spots the man talking to Dutch, looking much better in the hours since he’d last seen him; his face is clear of blood and grime, his clothing replaced with something clean and as stylish as usual, his posture lacking the tense tightness of recent injuries. Arthur finds that he’s glad the man was able to bounce back from something like that, knowing Trelawny avoids confrontation like John dodges water; like his life depends on it. But the worry of the situation still clings to him, because the thought of bounty hunters finding their way towards them is a threat Arthur wants to avoid as much as possible; there's a lot of money to be made off of their heads.

As much as Arthur would like to collapse in his cot and pass out, he had made something of a promise to Robin, and his neck gives a small throb as a reminder. Arthur’s certain that there’s a bit of bruising on the skin, a slight ache beneath and settled deep in his throat, and he’d rather be pestered by Robin’s mother henning than Grimshaw’s merciless patronizations.

Arthur noticed Robin’s weird way with people early on, finding traits in her charisma that made it both similar and unlike Dutch’s. They both had a means of talking that made one  _ want _ to listen to them, while Dutch’s words were provocative and thought-inspiring, Robin’s tone was soft with a warmth that made it a rare and welcoming sight; it was hard not to listen to someone who showed such unhindered friendliness. It was undoubtedly why the Reverend had taken to following her, not unlike a lost puppy, seeking out that genuine kindness that a man as broken and lost as Orville Swanson couldn’t help but pursue. But Robin was quick in a conversation, just like Dutch and Hosea could be, but while the men retaliated with some hidden form of wisdom wrapped in a tease, Robin’s honesty also applied to her retorts; it attracted Sean’s abnormal passion for “argumentation” like flies to honey — Sean loved to tease people, and he didn’t have to worry about Robin shooting him, because she liked to tease the kid, too.

So he wasn’t surprised to see Robin sitting by the scout fire with Swanson nearby and Sean across from her, Arthur hearing that sharpness in his tone that already signalled something of a pointed discussion going on. Robin looked amused, but her eyes were narrowed in a way that showed a slight frustration. Swanson has a cup of coffee in his hands, despite it almost being sundown, but Arthur remembered Robin saying something about the caffeine helping with cravings and it suddenly made more sense. Arthur had noticed the man had been trying harder to step away from his vices, but it went deeper than cravings and addiction, and in a way it made Arthur grateful that someone as caring as Robin was around to help the man gather at least a semblance of an act together.

“You sound like a child, Sean,” Robin said as Arthur approached; she was focused so intently at the young man  _ pouting _ across from her that she hardly gave Arthur a glance.

Sean merely scoffed, crossing his arms and assuming what Arthur doubted the kid knew was a classic tantrum stance children often donned, not twenty-something year-old  _ men _ . “I  _ am _ a child! A child of God…” He waved a finger at the sky before insisting even further, “And God gave me the ability  _ not _ to read,”

“But Lenny—“

“Ol’  _ Leonard _ don’t know when to quit!” Sean retorted, looking wired and Arthur could see a slight tinge to his cheeks. But the kid slouched as Arthur settled himself into a crate between the two of them, letting the fire warm his fingers as he watched the conversation unfold. “I told him I’d  _ try _ , and I’ve tried, and it’s not for me,”

Robin sighed, glancing up as Arthur sat down and waving a hand at the kid. “Arthur, tell him,”

He shrugged. “Sorry, Robin, the boy’s an idiot, y’all wastin’ your time,”

She rolled her eyes, but he saw how the corners of her mouth twitched, and he knew she was holding back a smirk at his remark. “Yeah? Well, so is Bill, and I know even  _ he _ can read,”

“Don’t compare me to that greasy fecker, Rivera!”

“I won’t have to compare you to that  _ greasy fecker _ if you let me try and teach you a bit,” Robin said, her voice going soft as she continued. “I learned to read  _ three times _ , Sean, and I know how hard it can be — I still can’t read English as well as I’d like, anyways. So, just, give me a chance, will you?”

Sean groaned, but Arthur could already tell Robin had successfully worked her way in. He looked a bit sheepish when he asked hesitantly, “Three times?”

“Sure,” Robin responded. “There’s patterns in language, Sean, and once you see them it gets much easier to learn. And when —  _ when _ — you learn how to read, you’ll see that there’s a whole lot of things out there waiting to be read,”

“Like what?” Sean was closing off a bit now, be it from embarrassment or hesitation, Arthur wasn’t sure. But the kid always used his stubbornness to deter people, but unfortunately Robin happened to be one of the most determined people Arthur knew; he wouldn’t get her to back down even if he brought out the insults.

“Could start with your bounty poster,” Arthur tossed the kid’s way, Robin nudging him with her shoe but even she had a poorly-disguised smile on her face.

Maybe Arthur should’ve stayed out of it, because Sean loved nothing more than to tease Arthur just to get a reaction out of him; it reminded him of John when they’d first picked the kid up, all squirrelly and eager. Only Sean was a hell of a lot more  _ impertinent _ than Marston was, and he immediately pounced in Arthur’s venture into the conversation, whirling around and snapping teasingly at him, “Oh yeah, Morgan? And who the hell taught yer arse how to read?”

“Dutch,” Arthur answered. “And he insisted on me startin’ with Evelyn Miller, so I reckon you take your chances with Miss Rivera here,”

Sean obviously didn’t recognize the name judging by the puzzled expression flooding his face, but Robin clearly did, groaning in sympathy as she said incredulously, “He  _ started _ with Miller?”

“Didn’t last long,” Arthur chuckled. “Guess you could say Hosea was the one who  _ kept _ me learnin’, but it were Dutch who did the teachin’,”

“We’ll start easy, Sean,” Robin insisted upon seeing the somewhat bewildered look on the kid’s face. “You know your letters?”

“Most of ‘em,”

“See? You’re already ahead of the game,”

“Ah, I wouldn’t go sayin’ that,” Sean prodded at a rock on the ground with his boot, going fidgety at the compliment. Arthur knew that the kid was brash and headstrong, constantly wanting to prove himself amidst a group of talented sharpshooters and intelligent schemers. But he wasn’t the greatest of shots — his quickdraw had improved, but it was many paces away from accurate — and he certainly lacked brains, and Arthur knew that was why he folded under compliments; he was alarmingly eager to please, but once he finally did so, he fumbled around as he struggled beneath acknowledgement. He hid that uncertainty behind stubbornness and flashy insults, which usually worked, but Arthur saw through it easily.

Robin must’ve seen some of it, too, quickly prodding a bit further as not to lose Sean to his self-doubt. Her words were encouraging, and it clearly appealed to Sean, who looked less uncertain after she spoke. “Why not? You’ve got a head start now, and the alphabet is the hardest part of learning,”

“I dunno, once ye start smashin’ ‘em all together,” He gestured in front of him, like he was slamming two rocks into each other, dropping his hands back into his lap before he shrugged. “Can’t get much further than that,”

“‘Cause you don’t know how to,” Arthur said as he fished a cigarette out of his satchel, lighting it off the flame of the campfire before bringing it to his lips. “It ain’t hard once you get the hang of it,”

He expected Sean to retaliate stubbornly at Arthur’s words, be he looked to be considering something for a moment, opting to mumble somewhat halfheartedly, “I guess, English…”

Arthur had almost entirely forgotten about the Reverend, who was decidedly silent throughout the entire conversation, clearly lost to his own thoughts as he sipped at his coffee. He could see the slight sluggishness to his movements, lacking the quick clumsiness that he acquired whenever he was inebriated, and Arthur found he was glad Swanson was showing the signs of somewhat consistent sobriety — he just hoped it would last.

He listened to Sean and Robin chatter for a while, nursing the cigarette as Robin encouraged Sean to go and talk to Lenny about reading material, while Sean failed to try and tried to twist the conversation into one of entirely unrelated topics. Regardless, Arthur couldn’t help but smirk when Sean failed to tease Robin into hacking down, pushing himself dramatically to his feet and heading into the direction of Lenny, mumbling heavily in that Irish accent of his. Unfortunately, it was merely a way to get Sean to fuck off, and it meant Robin was free to start poking at his neck; it beat Grimshaw, undoubtedly, but he hated being looked after.

She handed him a tiny wooden container containing a salve that should help with the bruising, which smelled like herbs Arthur vaguely recognized and felt like ice when she applied it to his neck. The rope had cut through his skin in some places, leaving little scratches that itch like all hell but Robin assured him they wouldn’t scar. Despite the rather strong violence of the injury, Arthur’s troubles remained on a topical level, his trachea remaining un-collapsed and his throat otherwise entirely unharmed — achy, absolutely, but Robin is sited a night’s rest would fix the most of it. The bruises would take a bit longer but Arthur knew the gist with bruising; they wouldn’t last a week, at the most.

Arthur thought of Robin’s hands along his skin, the comfort in her touch, and he fell into a restful sleep just as the sun was setting. He was thankful no one bothered him, and perhaps Robin had some kind of medical authority over the rest of them — doctor’s orders and all that. But he slept and thought about her, her laugh like a ghostly whisper in his dreams, and Arthur woke up wishing he could hold her… just for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terrible at conclusions, even when I'm writing essays, so I apologize when chapters end up sounding a bit odd towards the end :P


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